


In the Dark Hours

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little clinical, Angst, Attempts at communication, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Compliant up to S3, Closeted John Watson, Complete, Do I have to list the specific acts?, Don't you think?, Epistolary, First Time, Friends to Lovers, John's blog, John's history, Johnlock - Freeform, Jolto, M/M, MABA Bi Fanworks Challenge, Miscommunication, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Post-Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Sociopathy, Suicide, Suicide of husband and father, Unreliable Narrator, Who will ever know about S4?, and then enthusiastic!, but really UNenthusiastic consent, description of sex under duress, not dub con, not exactly, risk seeking behaviour, selective mute, suicidal thoughts of John Watson, working on his reliability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, wounded and silent, drifts back to Baker Street for healing...and then goes home again. He visits, gets more upbeat, chattier, smiles, jokes... and still goes home again. Sherlock wants him to move back in - it just makes sense - but John shows no signs of doing so. </p><p>This is the story of how John and Sherlock learn to say what needs to be said when they're both so very, very rubbish at talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to [Martin's Angry Bisexual Army's Bi Fanworks Challenge](http://martins-angry-bisexual-army.tumblr.com/)  
> First chapter beta'd by the wonderful [cakepopsforeveryone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/pseuds/cakepopsforeveryone)

Sherlock was out when John first made his way to Baker Street, the first night, his first night alone.

It was dark when Sherlock came home, long since dark. John was not asleep in his chair, but he was deep in his own thoughts, oblivious to the sounds around him. Sherlock opened and closed the front door, not quietly, and creaked the fourteenth step, and John still had not roused when Sherlock paused at the door. Several silent moments passed, followed by a small sigh from Sherlock before he backed away and entered the flat through the door to the kitchen.

Tea. Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil, getting out the bags, the milk and the mugs, finding the brown teapot in the cupboard and rinsing it (he rarely used the pot on his own). He did not clatter – Sherlock was capable of moving with exorbitant stealth when he chose – but he allowed the small clinks and thunks to emerge, so that by the time the tea was made he had not precisely interrupted John’s reverie, but had gradually and gently _disturbed_ it, and John was aware of him when he stepped in to the lounge and handed him a steaming mug of tea.

“Thank you.” John’s voice did not sound right. Sherlock gave him a curt nod and settled into his own chair with his own cup. The silence blossomed around them. Sherlock was used to silence, now, after the months back at Baker Street on his own, and the years before that. (Being dead accustoms one to quietness.) John also, though he seemed to have forgotten what companionable silence felt like.

Apparently he had forgotten, too, how not to fill a silence. He seemed to feel he should explain himself. “I – “ A stop, and a frown. “It’s – “ Again, the frustrated scowl. He cleared this throat. Wet his lips. “Sherlock – “ Nothing was coming out. His voice was still wrong. Sherlock did not know how to fix it.

“John.” There might be a thing that was the right thing to say and Sherlock knew without a doubt that there was absolutely no chance he would discover what it was in time to say it to John. “I’m sorry.” That wasn’t what he had expected to say. He looked at the deductions that had moved him to say it, though, and found it was exactly what he meant.

Another cough. “Don’t be.” Another silence stretched out through several breaths. Then John said, “But. Can we… can we not  do this tonight? I came here – I didn’t think about it, I just came. I wanted to not _talk about it_. Here. Can we?”

“Of course.” Sherlock didn’t know if this was some sort of promise, _tomorrow we’ll talk about it_ , or another one of John’s infinite, expert deflections. He did not ask. He did not care. He could deduce a fair amount about what had happened, based on his own observations and prior knowledge, helped greatly by a series of terse but informative texts from Mycroft over the past days. He could at least work out that now was not the time to ask John to fill in the blanks. He had asked not to talk about it.

They didn’t talk about anything else, either. John sank back into his brooding silence and Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and sank into his own trance. He tried to ignore the burgeoning feeling of rightness at having John sitting opposite, in his own chair, in their flat. Identifying that thought, he immediately told himself several things, quite sternly. A great deal of loss had brought John to this point. A friend should feel some concern, rather than little rising bubbles of joy. Also, John might leave at any time. In ten minutes. In the morning. In a week. He had a flat and a job. Their lives had diverged years ago and had just kept on diverging. There were so many things he didn’t know. Reasoning from incomplete data invariably leads to…difficulties. This elation was ill-conceived, premature and inappropriate. Irrational. He found he was able to enjoy it anyway.

Presently, an unwontedly domestic thought occurred to Sherlock and he rose abruptly (John did not look up) and made his way up the stairs to John’s old room. His own belongings had begun a slow migration into the unused spaces of the bedroom, but somehow he had always left the bed clear, and most of the floor. He knew he had stored an extra set of sheets in there somewhere, but when he opened the door, he made an unexpected discovery:

Mrs. Hudson had already made John’s bed.

All of the implications of this gesture settled into Sherlock’s mind in a brief flutter. Not for the first time, he seriously considered the possibility that it was Mrs. Hudson who was the real genius of Baker Street. He returned to the lounge.

John was staring at the fire, unblinking. Ridiculous, thought Sherlock. Humans can’t not blink. He observed John for precisely one minute and, with some satisfaction, saw that John closed his eyes nine distinct times, and a tenth just after the minute ended. Less than the average, certainly, but hardly _unblinking_. The movements of his eyelids were painfully slow. He did not react to Sherlock’s staring.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. “John.” His voice sounded as odd as John’s. Perhaps it was the dust. “John.” He watched John return to himself with the barest movement of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. It’s late. I should go h – “ He stopped. _Home_ , Sherlock supplied. John cleared his throat. “I should go.” He made no move to rise.

“You’re staying here. Your bed is made.” Sherlock stepped back from John’s chair, indicating that John should get up and go upstairs.

“My bed?” John’s face had a particular expression that he made, eyebrows raised, eyes inquiring, while he waited for something to make sense. Sherlock remembered it well.

“Your bed, John,” he repeated patiently. “Upstairs. Fresh sheets and everything.”

John blinked his comprehension, took a deep breath and held it briefly, passing his hand over his face, back and forth over his mouth, around behind his head to bolster his stiff neck. Let out his breath. Stretched his neck. “My bed,” John repeated. “My bed.” He rose from his chair, and Sherlock moved out of his way as he headed toward the stairs. At the door to the lounge he paused, and looked back at his friend. “Sherlock.” His face worked for a moment. “Thank you.” He waited for Sherlock’s grave nod and then headed upstairs.

Their nighttime routines were not synchronised, of course, since it had been years since they’d been flatmates. All the same, they puttered around each other, and before long John had said goodnight and closed himself into his old room.

Sherlock settled into his own bed, surprised to find that a feeling of contentment was attempting to steal over him. He couldn’t place it until he heard the bed above him creak as John lay down on it. He listened, wondering anxiously if – oh, there it was. Three minutes lying on his back to settle, then turn onto his right side. Back to the wall, even after all these years. Another slight creak of the bed as he did so.

John was upstairs, in his bed, making his noises. Sherlock studiously avoided pinpointing exactly how long he’d been carrying the knot that unravelled, oh so slightly, when he heard John Watson turn over to sleep, for the first time in years.

***

In the morning, John left. He had tea and toast with Sherlock in the kitchen, washed their cups and plates in the sink, and put on his shoes.

Sherlock watched him. He did not say, you’re leaving? Because it was obvious. _Why_ was less obvious, was completely impenetrable, but Sherlock hadn’t become the man he was today by simply asking for explanations. He noted the tidy kitchen. He deduced that the bed upstairs had been remade, probably with hospital corners. He fought the urge to run up and pull it apart. _Childish_.

John stood at the door for a moment, facing Sherlock but not looking at him, radiating awkwardness. “Right. Well, um. Thank you. For putting me up.” He stopped.

 _We’re doing manners. Politeness._ Sherlock knew how to do this. “Not at all.” Only a second or two late. Still acceptable. Should he add something? _Anytime_. He did not trust his ability to pitch it at the right degree of casual. He said nothing more.

After another moment, John flicked his eyes to Sherlock’s, nodded once, and left.

* **

Sherlock thought about all the times he’d watched John leave in the months since he’d been back. Times he’d left casually, with an amiable smile, after a dance lesson, perhaps, before heading back out to his flat by tube, and times he’d left angry, that first night, hailing a cab and waiting for Mary, without another look at Sherlock. The time he’d married Mary. (Although in fairness, Sherlock had been the one to leave that night, but he considered that the flimsiest technicality. The bigger leaving had already been done.) John – all unknowing – had made Sherlock watch him leave a thousand times or more. He wondered if all of those small cuts, taken together, could somehow balance out the one time he’d made John watch him die.

***

John didn’t stay the next time he came by. He brought pho from the Vietnamese takeaway, they watched telly for a couple of hours, then he took the tube and a cab back to his flat. They talked about the food, the shows, one case that Sherlock had solved over e-mail earlier in the week. (“Barely a four, and that only because of the broken cat door. I would have been really annoyed if I’d had to put on clothes for it.”)

John did not talk about home. Sherlock knew most of the facts by now, but couldn’t guess how John was feeling about it all, and he wasn’t going to ask. He had thought, that first morning, they might speak, but John hadn’t, and Sherlock had let him not. John disliked talking about his feelings anyway, and Sherlock was the last person who was going to push him to do so. As rubbish as John was at talking, Sherlock was infinitely more rubbish at listening. Or, no, he could listen, but as for responding in a helpful way, conducive (at best) to continued conversation or (at least) to no one storming out of the room in a fit of frustration…no, not his area.

When John moved back to Baker Street, they’d find their way, without a lot of talking (which only muddled things up anyway). They always had.

***

The third time, John came by on his bike, straight from the surgery. Sherlock received a text at about four-thirty:

_Long ride home and looks like rain. Can I shelter there for a while?_

_You’re still cycling? Should have known. Yes, by all means. SH_

_Anything in, or shall I bring food?_

_There are beans. Tinned spaghetti. A jar of I think olives. Some lentils. SH_

_You think olives? Right. Chinese from the end of the road. Call it in and I’ll pick it up._

_Acknowledged. SH_

The heavens opened twenty minutes later, and John arrived, dripping wet but victorious, holding aloft the bag of takeaway like a trophy, grinning maniacally. Something in the drunk delight of battle with wild weather made the years drop away, and he looked quite like he used to, grinning and gleeful in that very doorway.

Exuberant. Joyful. He could remember John like that, with no shadows. It seemed such a long time ago.

Sherlock moved to take the bag from him and busily unpacked it in the kitchen, to keep himself from staring. John noticed neither the yearning in his face nor the unprecedented helpfulness of his actions as he sluiced off the water and shed his sodden jacket, with the spatter of mud from the rear tyre all up its back. Before he emerged from the kitchen, Sherlock detoured by his bedroom and returned with a towel and a big, dry hoodie.

“Ah, cheers.” John took the towel and the jumper and headed to the bathroom. Always so modest.

They ate and played cards, despite John’s many complaints about Sherlock’s methods. The rain continued long into the night, and John made no protest when Sherlock suggested he stay. His wet clothes were hanging by the fire and would be dry by morning. Sherlock was not particularly tired, had had no prior plans to sleep that night, but retired to his room all the same, and tucked himself in under John’s rustlings, and slept until sunrise.

Breakfast was pleasant. They had tea together, and toast, and read the papers, and had second cups of tea. Sherlock told John about a case he’d been on the week before, just insurance fraud, nothing dangerous, in which the key to the mystery was a picture on the PA’s phone, showing his boss at her desk wearing different earrings.

John liked it when he broke down the deductions, so he did, quite finely he thought, and was rewarded with John’s astonished praise – “Brilliant!” – with that same slight shake of the head. Sherlock basked a little, to which he felt entitled, given that John no longer accompanied him on cases of late – not since the disastrous stag night, for proper cases, or since Magnussen. He resolutely did not think about how much he’d missed John’s approval. It had been too long.

But there he was, smiling and calling him brilliant, and it was…good. They still hadn’t talked about…well, anything, really. It was personal, and anyway, many of the shadows had cleared from John’s countenance since that first visit, and what with a good sleep and a leisurely breakfast, and a brief battle with the elements last night, John was looking actually quite chipper. Obviously things were getting better on their own. Talking about them could only make it worse. So many things had gradually become better, easier to ignore, once they were long enough past to be past mentioning. It was like forgiveness.

John was still smiling slightly when he rose and rinsed his cup and plate, just like the first time, but without the awkwardness. “Well, that sleep did me the world of good. Much better than a ride home in a thunderstorm. Thanks.” Again, the manners. But easier. Forgetfulness was already setting in. Best not to disturb it.

“Of course.” It was again a prelude to leaving. That was fine. “It was no trouble. It’s always… anytime. You’re welcome anytime.” The right pitch of warm balanced with casual this time. Perfect. And it was true, after all.

***

They fell into a pattern of visits. On days when he finished early at the surgery, John would cycle over again to Baker Street and make himself at home. If Sherlock was out, he'd visit with Mrs. Hudson, or read through  the papers upstairs. If Sherlock was at home, they would have a cuppa together and Sherlock would tell him about his cases, if there were any, or whatever experiments he might have running. The latter were more common than the former, though, and the bulk of the cases came from the Yard.

"Makes sense, really," he mused one evening, searching for the remote among the sofa cushions. He never lost it when he was alone. He blamed John. "I haven't touched my website since I've been back. Not going to get any clients that way."

"You can't be serious," John scoffed, turning the page on yesterday’s paper.

"What do you mean?" Affronted. And he still couldn’t find the remote.

"You never got more than a handful of cases from hits on your impenetrable website. If it hadn't been for my blog, you would have been completely dependent on Lestrade."

"True, my website was always a little inaccessible for those of..." He waved a hand dismissively  "…average intellect. The ones who gravitate to your blog." He moved another cushion. No luck.

John raised himself in his chair, leaned over, and handed Sherlock the remote from where it had lain on Sherlock’s chair, not even trying not to smirk. "Yes, which meant my blog was enormously popular, and you had your pick of cases."

"Was?"

John did not shift his eyes from the page in front of him. "Well, I haven't exactly been updating regularly, either, have I? The last post was yours."

About the wedding. There was a brief pause while several things clamoured to remain unspoken. When the air cleared, Sherlock said, "Why aren't you writing?"

"What would I write about?" Something was happening to John’s voice.

"What did you ever write about? Whatever embellished nonsense crosses your mind. Whatever happens to you."

"Well, perhaps I will, if anything ever does happen to me." Bitterness. It was bitterness in John’s voice, and it took Sherlock by surprise. He'd thought... _isn't this the life John wanted?_ Of course it isn't _. But he keeps choosing it._

A silence held for a long moment, with Sherlock deciding not to comment and John, perhaps chagrinned, sought visibly to recover his equanimity. He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should write up some of your cases. You tell me about them anyway. Maybe I can write them up and post them. Won’t be the same as when I was actually there myself, but people will read it. I still have a fair few followers. Might generate some business.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock thought that sounded like an excellent idea, for several reasons, but felt it was better to keep quiet about it. “If you must.” _Too rude._ “If you like.” _Better._

John didn’t stay that night either.

***

_Won’t be the same as when I was actually there myself…_

No, it wouldn’t  be. And the most perplexing thing in the world to Sherlock was _Why wasn’t John actually there himself?_ Everything suggested he would like to be. Everything suggested he ought to be. There was absolutely nothing keeping him from it. And yet he wasn’t there.

He continued to visit regularly, and occasionally spent the night. He continued to cycle to work from his flat in the suburbs to the surgery, which was much closer to town. It was much closer to Baker Street as well, of course. Sherlock had placed that proximity quite high on his list of reasons why John ought to move back to 221B.

It was a fairly lengthy list. It included financial reasons (he could get rid of his car, he could more than halve his rent, they could share food expenses), practical reasons (closer to work, more convenient to Harry’s, handier to his gym) and personal reasons (tea, comfort, companionship). And affection.  He did not present this list to John, since the financial and practical reasons were obvious, and the personal ones... unspoken, but surely just as obvious?

Sherlock wanted him at Baker Street. He wanted him back. And unless he was completely off the mark (possible, where John was concerned; it had definitely happened before), John wanted it, too. It was the only choice that made _any sense at all,_ as far as Sherlock understood things.

But John continued to visit, and chat, and lounge around, and cycle home again.

He must be missing something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from a poem by Robert Graves, _She Tells Her Love_  
>  She tells her love while half asleep,  
> In the dark hours,  
> With half-words whispered low:  
> As Earth stirs in her winter sleep  
> And put out grass and flowers  
> Despite the snow,  
> Despite the falling snow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No manipulation, no tricks. He wanted John to move in, to come on cases. And – the truth, Sherlock, here at least – and to be his. He wanted them to belong to each other. Whatever that might mean – and even here, in this space, his mind balked. Naming it was too much like hoping for it.  
> So. Solution? He wanted it. He would ask for it."
> 
> John is blogging again, and seems pleased about it. Sherlock want him back on cases, back in 221B; Sherlock wants him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta work by the lovely and diligent [cakepopsforeveryone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/pseuds/cakepopsforeveryone).

  **The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

### The Silent Witness

 

**One thing not many people realise about Sherlock is how good he is with kids. So if anyone is looking for a babysitter… yeah, no. Still don’t call Sherlock. But he is good with kids. This particular case is a good example.**

**The facts of the case were that a woman went missing early one Sunday. Her handbag was gone as well, but she wasn’t answering her mobile and she didn’t make contact all day, which from what her husband said was _highly_ uncharacteristic. (He was pretty upset – even Sherlock didn’t think he was shamming, and Sherlock’s usually the most suspicious bastard you can think of.) She was healthy. She hadn’t been acting depressed or anxious at all lately – in fact, quite the opposite. She seemed more buoyant than she had in months, her husband said. He couldn’t think of any reason she might have chosen to disappear, they weren’t particularly wealthy or influential (not likely a kidnapping then), she didn’t have any enemies that he knew of, and all the friends and neighbours who were interviewed agreed. She hadn’t used her bank cards since her disappearance, and there had been no unusual activity in any of her accounts in the days leading up to it, either. None of the usual markers seemed to apply.**

**The couple didn’t have any children, but they had their nine-year-old nephew living with them. His mother (a widow) had a 5-month work contract overseas and couldn’t be contacted for weeks at a time. The police had tried to interview the nephew, but without success. Apparently, he doesn’t speak! Sure enough, the DI tried to talk to him and the boy barely blinked in response, even to really simple yes or no questions. Not a bad student, apparently, and an amazing musician (piano), but no verbal communication whatsoever, according to his uncle.**

**Sherlock always says there’s no point in trying to reason from incomplete data, so he buried himself in her records: credit cards, banking, land line, mobile phone, computer use…everything. He discovered a few things, like that she made a regular cash withdrawal, had been for a couple of months, modest on its own, but that would add up over time. So she might have money, he reasoned, and not need her cards for a while. Nothing yet that pointed to foul play.**

**The most significant discovery he made, though, from observing the nephew and scrolling through the computer Skype logs, was that the nephew _could_ talk, but had completely clammed up for some reason.**

**Selective mutism. Anyone heard of it? I read about it in medical school, but never encountered a case of it myself. Teachers see it more than doctors. Some sort of social anxiety, made worse by circumstantial stressors, makes children unable to speak in some situations. Sherlock was convinced that the boy was the key to the mystery, but the question was, how to unlock the boy?**

**Sherlock was pretty sure he talked to his mother, from the Skype records, but she wasn’t in contact at the moment and wouldn’t be available again for another week. He figured that the trick was to find a situation where the boy was not feeling anxious, and try to talk to him then.**

**Music was the key. When Sherlock isn’t torturing his violin (and his listeners), he’s an absolutely brilliant musician. He found the music the boy was working on, brought in his violin, and played duets with him. _For ages._ The DI was shocked – it’s the first sign he’s ever seen of Sherlock being patient. At a certain stage he said, quietly, in between pieces, that he needed to know where his aunt had gone, so when he was ready, Sherlock would listen. The kid played one more piece, then just stopped and whispered the whole story. Too quietly for anyone else to hear, but he told it, and Sherlock listened.**

**Based on the behaviour the boy described, and what she’d been saying just before leaving, Sherlock deduced that the aunt had undiagnosed bipolar disorder and had swung into a manic phase. They were (well, Sherlock was) able to track her down to a hotel in Earl’s Court. She was a bit disoriented but otherwise in good health, and she’s now getting the care she needs. And the uncle is getting a crash course in his nephew’s anxiety disorder, extra motivated now because in his eyes, the kid’s a hero.**

**I think the real hero is Sherlock Holmes.**

***

“I see you’re blogging again.” They were sitting in their chairs, facing but not looking at each other. John was dabbling on his laptop and Sherlock had a file open that he wasn’t reading.

“We talked about it. You watched me type it up.” It was true. He’d watched the steady effort John always made when he typed, and the particular flourish with which he made the final click (or sometimes, for variety, pressed ‘enter’) to complete a post. He never did it any other time. It was Sherlock’s signal to feign utter indifference until he could get to his own laptop (when he was alone) and read what John had written.

There was a pause. John did not ask what he thought.

That never stopped Sherlock. “I see you haven’t given up your _penchant_ for the overly dramatic.” He used the French pronunciation because he knew it annoyed John. “And as usual you missed the point entirely. There was a great deal of science behind that encounter, you know. Clearly you didn’t feel any need to make mention of it.”

“Science? You played the violin.”

“Psychology. It’s a fascinating phenomenon, in its extreme form. Of course most people experience reduced performance under strain, but this… Well. The child needed to feel secure in order to overcome his extreme anxiety. Exploiting a shared interest was the quickest way to achieve this. I gained his trust, Lestrade got his witness. Simple. You made it sound like we were… _soul mates._ Almost embarrassingly sentimental. ”

 “It’s got a whole lot of hits. People have really enjoyed reading it.”

“No, they haven’t.” Sherlock thought for a moment. John was usually right about these things. “Or if they have, it’s because they also favour saccharine emotionalism over hard science. This could be the premise for one of those terrible films made just for the telly.”

“Shut up.” John clicked at something on his computer. “Anyway, I think you liked this one.”

Sherlock did not deny it. This post had all the warm approval he’d always delighted in, without the hidden landmines _(freak, sociopath)_ that had littered John’s posts in the early days – even after he’d known that Sherlock was reading. “Why did you choose that one? I’ve told you about at least four cases in the last few weeks. What was it about that one?”

John was silent for a long moment, still tapping away at his laptop. His lips were pursed, though, and his brow was furrowed – he was thinking, not ignoring. He was going to give an honest answer, and that took John time. “I suppose… well, it was the kid, wasn’t it? _Selective_ mute. Makes it sound like a choice. As if he didn’t _want_ to help find his aunt.”

“Of course he did.” Sherlock kept his eyes trained on his friend, who still had not looked up from his screen.

“Yeah, of course, but I can just picture everyone getting really frustrated with him all the same. His uncle sure was, the way you told it. Must be rough. To know how important it is to just say something, and not be able to.” John cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Makes for a good story, anyway. That there was all that…stuff… inside him, that he couldn’t express, and someone found a way to let it out in time.” John grinned, now, and met Sherlock’s eye. “Happy ending, plus some music…it _would_ make a good film. People like that sort of thing.”

Sherlock listened to this speech – a long one for John – and thought his own thoughts. Aloud, he said, “They’re sure to turn it into a West End musical.”

“I’ll get you tickets to the opening.” John looked back to his laptop, but he was still smiling. “You can take your parents.”

 _That smile._ “All right, yes, I liked it. There’s no need to get unpleasant.”

***

When John left that night, Sherlock did not go to bed. He glanced at his pack of nicotine patches, but reached for the cigarettes instead. This problem could not be measured in patches.

So. He drew in a deep lungful of smoke. What had worked in the past with John?

 _Appealing to his sense of danger._ That very first night he’d arranged – well, sort of – a wild chase through alleys and over rooftops that had John close on his heels with no thought to spare for his dismal cane and his distasteful psychosomatic limp. He’d proven that point quite finely, once and for all. _Could be dangerous_ was all he’d have to say. It got him to hare across London to send a text, before he’d even known…anything. It got him to break into Baskerville. A variation on it had got him into Magnussen’s penthouse… perhaps not, then. When John was willing to follow, Sherlock had a tendency to lead them with perhaps less wisdom than… no. He took another long haul on his cigarette and shook the idea off.

_Duty, then._

Hard to imagine how to make moving back to Baker Street a concern for Queen and country, but it might not be impossible. A case, perhaps. Luring John onto a case as a…what? A gateway drug? For moving back to Baker Street? _He’s like a drug_. Be honest. For coming back to Sherlock. A possibility, anyway, though John would be mightily put out if he ever discovered the element of planning that had gone into it. He did have an inconvenient way of becoming enormously perceptive at precisely the wrong  time.

What else motivates him? _Care of others._ Specifically (most importantly), care of _Sherlock._ But what would that plan look like? Bit by bit getting himself into more and more dangerous situations so that John would see that he was really unable to take care of himself…? Hm. Certain glaring possibilities presented themselves for how this plan could go horribly wrong, but he gave it due consideration anyway. It had the added advantage of giving John the opportunity to get physically violent with someone who sorely deserved it, morally speaking. John was always cheerful when that happened. But it did present risks, not the least of which was, again, how John would react if he discovered he was being manipulated.

That was, in fact, the flaw in any plan to manipulate John into giving Sherlock what he wanted. Every plan he hatched came up against this enormous, immovable obstacle. Namely, if John finds out, he will be so angry that he will never come back. Not for telly, not for shelter in a thunderstorm, not for takeaways. Not for Sherlock. The risk was simply too great.

He was at an impasse. He had sucked back three cigarettes but none of the threads of reasoning he was trying to follow was leading him to the outcome he desired. Time for a different approach. He put out the glowing stub that he still held between his fingers and lay back on the sofa, encouraging his mind to go fuzzy at the edges. He allowed the problem to hover in his mind, rotating, coiling there, amorphous. It was a room in his mind palace that did not adhere to the usual architecture, but allowed for the gentle teasing out of patterns that were not patterns, connections so tenuous they could be snapped by the barest tug of the conscious mind, but that could be delicately untangled if he looked the other way.

He thought about John. No, that was too active. He sat quietly and held John in his mind.

When he’d arrived home, at Baker Street, that first night after everything fell apart, John had been faded, hardly there. He could barely speak, and had had one simple request, _not to talk about it._ Sherlock had respected the request that night, and during later visits had even come to agree with it. John was getting better. Hours, at first, and then whole visits, and strings of visits, would pass without John drifting off into a brooding reverie, or without that twist of bitterness to his words.

John was writing, now. And joking with Sherlock, and smiling. This state of affairs had to be preserved, and if that meant giving a miss to a chat about the specific details of whatever had gone on (which was _over_ anyway, and therefore irrelevant) then surely that was a small price to pay.

It had been like this ever since he’d come back from the dead. John’s response to him had been mystifying from the start. The savagery of his first response had been a shock, though Sherlock was prepared to admit that the manner of his…revelation lacked a certain sensitivity. He had only been trying to cheer John up, though. Seeing him at that table, with the terrible moustache, looking so…grim. The sight of him had been frankly heartbreaking, and the only thing that Sherlock knew of that could reliably bring John alive was Sherlock being, well, Sherlock.

Only it had been so long since he had _been_ Sherlock that of course he missed the mark entirely. He hadn’t made John laugh, he’d made him _furious_ , because while in Sherlock’s mind he’d been _away_ , in John’s mind he’d been _dead._ Of course now he understood better what a difference that would make, but at the time, it had shocked him to his core.

 _On the other hand_ , a small voice suggested, _it sort of worked._ Worked? He nutted me in the face that night. _Ah, but he was alive again when he did it._ Still, on the whole, not a roaring success.

Sherlock thought about how lost he had been, coming back to find things not as he’d left them. To find John not as he’d left him. To the person he’d been when he jumped, it was a sensible expectation; their lives revolved around him, after all. So they would necessarily be suspended if he wasn’t there, more or less indefinitely, only to swell into full life again upon his return.

Like certain kinds of desert plants, he thought vaguely. Or…fleas. (Was it fleas?)

He'd never thought this through, would have recognised the ridiculousness of it if anyone had articulated it to him, but clearly that must have been what he was thinking. He had been completely unprepared for the ferocity of his reception, not just from John, from everyone. He hadn’t realised.

Everyone forgave him, in the end. The ones who mattered – the ones who had anything to forgive. John had admittedly done so under duress, there in the train car, but with a vehemence that could only be unfeigned. John was rubbish at lying anyway. He really did forgive him.

John forgave him, he did. Sherlock had no doubt about that. But he held something back. It wasn’t just because of Mary. John deliberately kept himself back. He had never done that before – he might have grumped about it, but he always did what Sherlock asked. He had always given _himself_ to Sherlock, in an unquestioning way that saner people would have found worrying. But after, it was like...he forgave Sherlock, but knew better now who he was. Not in a good way. Forgiveness, yes – but he was never quite _Sherlock’s_ again.

Sherlock shifted his body on the sofa, not rousing. Here was a thread to follow. In his mind, he ignored it, looking away, lest it wind itself back into the snarled whole.

Who was he? He wasn’t the same man who’d made that jump. At the time he’d really believed it was the only way, the only way to defeat Moriarty and save his friends, save John. It had hurt badly – not the fall itself, though that was jarring, but the loneliness afterwards. The absence of a friend, now that he had one. He comforted himself that it was the only way. Even Mycroft hadn’t been able to see an alternative – and he’d trusted Mycroft. Force of habit. But Mycroft’s priorities differed wildly from his own. He knew this. Had known this. What would have happened if he’d trusted John instead? Impossible to say, of course. Irrational even to ask.

His old life was gone. It had smashed onto the pavement alongside the decoy wearing Sherlock’s clothes. And even if he could have picked it up, that life, picked it up and dusted it off, glued the pieces back together, it wouldn’t fit him now. He’d tried, oh, how he’d tried, to fit into what was left of it, slot himself in beside John, into whatever space he would allow him _(best man, best friend, for socialising with in his spare time)_ , taking cases from the Yard and from John’s blog. Trying to be Sherlock Holmes. Not knowing any longer what that even meant, but still trying.

John could have helped him. John, who was surly and unsociable but always knew when Sherlock needed reminding about basic rules (say thank you, don’t smile about kidnapped children, _et cetera_ ). John positioned himself just behind Sherlock’s left shoulder and _kept him right_. Only he didn’t anymore. John wasn’t _his_ anymore. He had been. Sherlock was sure of that now, that he had been. But not anymore.

He was close to a solution. He could _feel_ it. He was weaving around it, past it. It was there, but it eluded him.

He was different now. John had belonged to the person he used to be, and it had almost destroyed him. (Yes, destroyed him. No room for denials in _this_ space.) Sherlock wasn’t that person anymore, but something of John was being held back because of what that other Sherlock had done to him. That other Sherlock was – rash. Brilliant. Unfettered. Clever. Ruthless. Prepared to use whatever tools he had to hand to achieve his goals. _Tools_ such as the trust and loyalty of the people who loved him. Manipulative.

There it was. He couldn’t manipulate John into doing what he wanted, because that was what the other Sherlock would have done, and it was precisely what made John keep a part of himself back from Sherlock. If he didn’t want John to get angry at being manipulated, perhaps the simplest plan (things don’t always have to be clever) would be _not_ _to manipulate him._

Sherlock took a steadying breath. This was more introspection in one evening than he’d undergone in…possibly ever. He’d learned a lot while he was away, and even more in the time since he’d been back. So. No manipulation, no tricks. He wanted John to move in, to come on cases. And – _the truth, Sherlock, here at least_ – and to be his. He wanted them to belong to each other. Whatever that might mean – and even here, in this space, his mind balked. Naming it was too much like hoping for it.

So. Solution? He wanted it. He would _ask_ for it. Just ask. He’d have the lists prepared. It would be very practical and straightforward. The next time John came over, he would ask. For at least some of what he wanted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has decided to be honest with John about what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter one, but I promise the next chapter's standing tiptoe in the wings.

It was several days before Sherlock had a chance to set his plan in motion. John’s blog post had yielded a handful of cases, with two requiring that he actually leave the flat, and he was out and about for several evenings in a row. He further spent some time roaming around London, greasing palms in his homeless network and keeping tabs on the whole filthy, irresistible place. John texted him occasionally, and he responded, but indicated that no, tonight he would be out, or no, Saturday he would be busy all day. Once he was no longer able to convince even himself that he wasn’t simply trying to avoid the inevitable, he texted a brief ‘ _Solved it’_ in John’s direction (knowing he was almost finished his shift) and began to make his way home from Vauxhall. He took the long way.

When Sherlock bounded up the stairs, John was already sitting in the lounge, drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson. They were eating biscuits, and Mrs. Hudson was talking about her sister’s hip replacement; the surgery, the difficult recovery.

“I don’t know how she would manage without her daughters, I really don’t. They’re taking such good care of her, but it’s still hard. I’ll keep my own bones, thank you. They might not be perfect, but… Oh, Sherlock, you’re home! John and I have been having a nice chat.”

Hanging his coat behind the door, Sherlock nodded to his landlady, and to John, and accepted the proffered cup of tea. He took two biscuits, and moved toward the sofa, paused, reached for two more biscuits, and then seated himself. (It hadn’t been a particularly challenging case, but he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and these were Mrs. Hudson’s oatmeal and raisin biscuits, after all.)

Mrs. Hudson topped up her own cup, and John’s, and settled back into Sherlock’s chair. She smiled benignly at both of them, and they all shared a silence as they sipped their tea. John dunked his biscuit, as was his habit, and Sherlock looked away. Presently Mrs. Hudson spoke again. “It’s lovely to have you coming round again, John. We’ve both missed you.”

Sherlock stiffened in alarm, without actually changing his posture in any way.

John cleared his throat. Smiled. “Well, thank you. I’ve missed you, too.” His eyes did not so much as flicker to Sherlock. _Whom_ did John miss? Mrs. Hudson? Or Sherlock as well? _I’ve missed you._ Curse the English language and its ambiguous personal pronouns. In practically every other language Sherlock would have known.

“And how is your flat? Are you getting on all right now that… are you getting on all right?” Mrs. Hudson missed ‘subtle’ by a country mile, and Sherlock did not know whether to be distressed or relieved that she was edging towards the topics that were of most interest to him. He watched John avidly (still pretending disinterest, but not very well).

John smiled at her gracelessness. “It’s a bit quiet, to tell you the truth. Just me, now. I sort of rattle around in a flat that size. But I make out all right. Stays tidy, anyway.”

“Hmph. That gives it points over Baker Street. Sherlock won’t even let me dust in here.” An indulgent smile, as she took her last swallow and began to stack the tea things back onto the tray. “Well, you know you’re always welcome here. Sherlock always perks right up after one of your visits.” She heaved a sigh and levered herself out of the armchair, wincing at a twinge in her hip. She bent to pick up the tray, but John said, “Let me,” and followed her down the stairs. Sherlock watched them go.

By the time John returned, Sherlock had recovered his composure, and was reading in his armchair. John settled wordlessly into his, and rifled through the magazines piled on the side table, looking for something to read. He settled on a magazine.

The companionable silence rested between them for several minutes. Presently, as if it was only of passing interest, Sherlock turned a page and mused, “She’s right, you know.” Bless Mrs. Hudson for giving him the perfect opening. Infinitely superior to the “I’ve been thinking” or the “Can we talk?” that Sherlock had been facing down if he’d had to do it on his own.

“Hmmm? Who is?” John was still engrossed in whatever he’d found to read, and spoke absently.

“Mrs. Hudson. And you, for that matter, since you said it yourself. It’s quiet at your flat. You’re alone now.”

“Yes, Sherlock, thank you, for pointing that out.” Still mild, only vaguely more attentive.

A breath. He was _not_ steeling himself, he was breathing; one needs air to speak, after all. “You should move back here.” There. He’d done it.

The quality of the quiet surrounding John shifted, stilled. He still did not look up, but his eyes were now fixed on a single point on the page in front of him, with no jerky saccades to indicate reading. His mouth closed. His jaw tightened. Very little in his body actually moved, but Sherlock could see his sudden tension. It radiated from him in shimmering waves. “You think so.” Flat, after a pause only slightly too long.

“It’s obvious.” Well, it was.

“Is it.” Questions with no interrogative lift to make them questions. What did they signify? Anger? Apprehension? Indifference? What was there to do but press on?

“Yes, of course.” He’d explain. John always enjoyed that. “First, size. You said yourself your flat is too big for you, and too quiet. This flat fits us both comfortably, and I can’t imagine you ever had any complaints about excessive quiet when you lived here.” A joke, but John only winced a little. That could not be good. Don’t stop. “Second, location. Baker Street is convenient to your work, and centrally located for the limited socialising you engage in.” Should he not have pointed out that it was limited? Too late. Keep going. “Third, finances. You cycle to work, but you maintain a car, which incurs costs in maintenance and insurance even when you’re not using it. Impractical. If you lived here, your expenses would be drastically reduced, including the not inconsiderable reduction involved in more than halving your rent. You took that flat and bought the car expecting to be living on two incomes. If you’re managing to cover all your costs on your own, it has to be at the expense of your long term savings. You no longer have a spouse to rely on for financial support, so your finances are going to be in a dismal state quite shortly, if they’re not already. That’s without even thinking about retirement, which is creeping up, John.”

Sherlock was cocking this up, no question, lingering on John’s failed relationship (with a psychopathic assassin, though – would he have wanted a _successful_ relationship with her?), his advancing age, and his looming poverty, all true, but likely to prick his pride and get his back up. This was not going according to plan.

Sure enough, the muscles in John’s face were twitching dangerously. Eyebrows, jaw. His lips were pursed. He swallowed. Spoke. “Is that it?”

Sherlock could think of a dozen clever responses that would be safe, factual and also completely beside the point.

What he said instead was, “No.”

John was surprised enough to glance at him. He must have been expecting one of the clever responses.

“No, that’s not it.” Honest. Straightforward. He’d decided, and it was the course most likely to succeed. Or least likely to fail. Or less likely to fail quite so spectacularly as the other possible courses...this had seemed like such a good idea. No sense abandoning it now, though. “John, I – I want you to move back. I feel – I still feel like it’s your home. I always have. The practical reasons are good ones, but also – I like having you here. I want you to live here, and I want you to come on cases again. That used to make you happy. I don’t think you’re happy where you are.” _Sentiment._ But he’d learned the value of sentiment. And it was true.  He also said, “Please, John.” And then, “Come home.”

 _Come home._ That was as honest as he knew how to be.

These were sentimental reasons, but they were _genuine_ sentimental reasons. He’d asked for what he wanted, because he wanted it. He’d said please, because he meant it. Now that it was out, he suddenly felt confident again. John had not come back until now because he hadn’t known that Sherlock wanted him to. But now he knew. He knew, and he would know Sherlock was sincere, and he missed Sherlock, he did, he’d been talking about Sherlock, too, when he told Mrs. Hudson, “I’ve missed you.” He’d meant Sherlock too. And now that he knew Sherlock missed him, too - he did know that, didn’t he? Hadn’t Sherlock said? He couldn’t remember.  No matter. Sherlock was sure that the sincerity alone – the key element so often missing in his earlier life, in his dealings with John _before_ – would be enough to tip the scales in his favour. John _had_ to say yes now.

But after a long silence, John said, “No.”

“I – no?”

“No.”

“That’s not… “ … _what I was expecting you to say._ Honesty. “Not what I was expecting you to say.” No reasons, no elaboration, just… _no._

Silence. John was looking down again. His face worked ceaselessly.

Sherlock had seen a short video once, some years before, of a drop of water splashing in a glass at 1000 frames per second. He’d been interested in the process – at the time, the ability to slow down events to that degree was new, and he could see many experimental applications for it – but the actual visual experience had absorbed him as well. That an event that was so fleeting could be stretched out so that every ripple was visible, every quiver of the tiny sphere, hanging in space. Where the surface tension was broken and where it held, and how the disturbance caused by the drop of water lingered even after the drop itself had been subsumed. Being able to slow down such simple motions until each moment could be discerned and its progression could be perfectly understood – it was compelling. He remembered it now, and wished he could use the same technology to record the motions of John’s face, there, as he sat. His face, upon which every expression showed up clearly but only for the most fleeting moment, and then was gone. Sherlock was sure that if he could slow the movements down sufficiently he would be able to read every little thought. Instead of being completely at sea.

John had said no. And every attempt Sherlock was making to deduce his reasons produced contradictory conclusions. Nothing to do but _ask_.

“John.” A flicker of a glance in response. “John?” More silence. “John, I’m trying to be honest here. It doesn’t – “ he gave a humourless laugh “- it doesn’t come easily to me.” Here John did smile, with the smallest corner of his mouth, but there was no pleasure in it. “I can’t see – I can’t deduce – I can only ask. John, don’t you want to?”

Here John started, almost violently, and his eyes flew to Sherlock’s, wide. “I _do.”_ He was almost choking on the words. “I do want – “ he swallowed his words, closing his eyes, closing his whole face.

Sherlock, lost: “Then _do_ it. Come back.”

 _“No.”_ Mouth barely moving, eyes still closed. One word, one syllable. Then nothing.

 _Sentiment_. It was a weak little word for whatever held John in its powerful grip. Sherlock was deeply appalled at John’s reaction. True, he himself had been nervous at the start, but he had expected a yes, quite frankly, or at worst a no with an explanation he could understand (and argue against). He had not expected the violence of John’s refusal, or his unwillingness to explain it.

“Why on earth not?” No response. “Just tell me, John.” The impatience was creeping into his voice and he did not try to hide it.

“I can’t.” And indeed he seemed barely able to give voice to even that small denial.

“Did I phrase it wrong and annoy you?” Nothing more probable. “You want to, though. You said. So what’s to stop you? You can move back in, have your old room, come on cases, it will be just like old times, John. Just like…” this choking thing was contagious, but he covered it admirably. “Just like the very best of times.” _Oh._ That was probably a miscalculation.

Sure enough, John opened his eyes at this, and raised them to meet Sherlock’s gaze, and there was no ambiguity on his face now. It was simple, burning anger. The next moment, he banked it; John always kept his anger on a tight leash. But Sherlock had seen it. John had _wanted_ Sherlock to see it.

Sherlock saw everything. He watched as John turned and carefully placed his magazine back on the side table. He watched him straighten in his chair, and sit for a brief moment, still, hands on armrests, feet on floor, eyes front. His chin lifted, then, and he rose, face expressionless and eyes still fixed on the middle distance. Again, a pause. Straight posture – _military_ – spine drawn up. The barest nod (an acknowledgement? A leave-taking? Something else? Why couldn’t Sherlock _tell?_ ),  a crisp turn, and he was at the door, taking down his coat, and leaving. Unhurried, definitely just _leaving_ , not _fleeing,_ not _storming out_ , just _leaving._ And then he’d gone.

Sherlock watched it happen. Again. 

And then he sat, long into the evening, deep in his own mind, doggedly applying his own methods to tease out why that had gone so terribly, terribly wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an emotional scene where John abandons the flat, he now drifts back, and is happy to carry on as before, so we have some more champion avoidance from John and Sherlock. It's tying Sherlock in knots, and as for John, he's not saying. Sherlock determines to solve the mystery of what's driving John, and John provides him with what may be a key bit of evidence. If he can get at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most heartfelt thanks to [Itsallfine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine) for superb beta work that has made this chapter actually do its job.

The next morning, Sherlock picked up his phone and carried it around in his hand. He had nothing to do, and he did it all over the flat, pacing through the lounge and swarming over the furniture, his body vibrating with unspent energy.

John had walked out yesterday. They needed to talk. John didn’t want to talk to him. It was John’s place to contact him, if he wanted to. John was not going to contact him. He was angry. Sherlock should text him. John would not welcome a text from Sherlock. John was waiting for a text from Sherlock. John would ignore a text from Sherlock. John would text him when he was ready to talk. John would never be ready to talk.

John would never be ready to talk. John had asked not to talk. John hated talking. John preferred to hide. John preferred to be small, and wear lumpy clothes, and have people not notice him. (John used to love it when Sherlock noticed him.) Sherlock had asked John to talk, and John had left. Sherlock had done this. It was up to Sherlock to fix it.

He had to do something. Send a text. Confront John directly. Confront him obliquely. Don’t confront him. Bring up yesterday. Demand an explanation. Don’t mention yesterday. John did not owe him an explanation. (At this late stage, he was quite sure that John didn’t owe him anything.)

He waved away his own ditherings. He hated being ridiculous. A text, then.

_All right? SH_

Simple. He sent it.

And, wonderful and most wonderful, a reply:   _Yeah._

_Did I overstep? SH_

_No, it’s fine._

_Ok. Just checking. SH_

Meaningless. But he wanted to keep talking.

_Thanks._

What could he say to that? _Yeah_ and _fine_ and _thanks_. This was not John at his most expressive. Still, the fact that he was saying anything went a long way towards telling Sherlock what he needed to know: He hadn’t ruined everything.

There was one more thing he needed to check:  

 _Next episode of Jonathan Strange tomorrow night. SH_    A silly show, a miniseries, but they’d been watching it.

A minute or two went by, during which Sherlock sat in his armchair and gazed at his own reflection in the screen of his phone. Then a buzz and a beep and a leap of his heart.

_I’ll be there._

***

He did show up. Quite early, too, considering that he hadn’t worked that day (it was Sunday) and that the show didn’t come on until nine o’clock. He’d stopped at Tesco and picked up a frozen pizza to share, and the makings of a salad, and they busied themselves in the kitchen putting a simple meal together.

They spoke, occasionally, about trifling matters, John pointing out the tomatoes that hadn’t yet been unpacked from the carrier bag, and Sherlock asking John which dressing he preferred. Sherlock hesitated over the wine – he had a Chardonnay in the fridge, and a Merlot in the cupboard. He preferred the red, but chose the white. It wasn’t as nice, but seemed to pair better with frozen pizza and awkward non-conversation. John didn’t comment.

Neither of them brought up their previous discussion. The conversation over dinner did not turn out to be awkward, either; Sherlock told John about his cases, and John had a few new stories about grisly or embarrassing ailments from the surgery, which he knew Sherlock enjoyed. That was all. Completely ordinary, mystifying only in contrast to the turmoil in which they had last parted. The food was unobjectionable, and the company was…unparalleled.

For a moment, Sherlock let himself relax into the familiarity of it – and it was familiar, although it had been so long. Being with John was so right, and he allowed himself to think, this. If I could just have this, every day, I would be completely satisfied. All he had to do was wait, and they would inevitably settle back into their old patterns, and John would give in, and all would be as it had been. And that would be perfect.

A moment later, though, John laughed at something Sherlock had said (what had he said?) and regarded him warmly, under half-lidded eyes, resting his cheek on his fist, and Sherlock suddenly wanted _more_. Dinners and comfortable talking, yes, and cases, adrenaline, but more than that, he wanted to _touch_ John, to feel his hair and brush his fingers over that fond smile.

To kiss John. To touch his body. To –

 _Oh._ He so rarely allowed himself to think those thoughts. He looked away before his own gaze could betray the heat that was rising in his chest.

No sense in denying it, though. It had been very clear to him for some time, but he usually managed to avoid thinking about it, avoid wanting it, avoid  _hoping._ He wondered if he had known what he was really asking for, when he’d asked John to come back. If John had known. If he had known, and that’s why he’d refused. Or - less likely, or less imaginable - if he had not known, and that’s why he’d refused. There were moments, like this one, when Sherlock was sure they were each only waiting for the other to reach over, and then all the wondering, all the yearning, would be over. Other times, John looked uncomfortable if Sherlock so much as touched his shoulder.

Sherlock didn’t know, because John didn’t say, and his tells and behaviours and the little he did say were such a mass of contradictions that Sherlock’s deductions were next to useless. (It was difficult to see things clearly when they were too close; Sherlock hadn’t been able to see John clearly for years.)

He felt a flash of anger, then. Anger at John. Here was John smiling, here was John talking, here was John looking at Sherlock as if Sherlock were lovely to look at. The nerve of him, how did he  _dare?_ To do that, and yet refuse the one thing they both wanted.

(Well, yes, but what thing, exactly? John had admitted to wanting to come back. He had not admitted to wanting anything else. Kissing. Touching. And so on. Sherlock had not said it was part of the request, so John could not say yes or no. John had never said anything to indicate that he would want that, with Sherlock. And asking – asking  when he had no idea what the answer was going to be – was more honest than he was capable of being.)

Anger at himself as well, then. For allowing the conversation to be avoided. John was a master of deflection. It was second nature to him, but it wasn’t as if Sherlock didn’t know how to push people, to provoke them into telling the truth. He knew where John’s buttons were, after all. But instead of pushing them, he was smiling back, and relating cases, and laughing, and allowing the pretense that there was nothing they needed to discuss. Sherlock felt a little ashamed at how easily he allowed himself to be deflected.

The washing up was done companionably, without strain, and they talked or remained silent with equal ease.

***

They had second glasses of wine while they watched their programme. By this time Sherlock was really wishing he’d chosen the Merlot, as this particular Chardonnay had an unpleasant aftertaste that grew more noticeable with the second glass. He thought of mentioning it to John, but decided the red would keep for another time.

Sherlock thought John might stay the night that night. It wasn’t terribly late when the show was over, and it wasn’t raining, but John was loose-limbed from the wine and didn’t look keen to move. He sat and drowsed in his chair while Sherlock scrolled through some evidence photos on his phone, pretending not to notice John’s sleepy state, pretending not to watch him.

Presently he said, “No work tomorrow?”

John roused a little. “Hm? No, I took an extra shift last week, so I’m off until Tuesday.” He blinked slowly, largely, stretching his face. His eyes were heavy, falling closed. “Might stay over, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” It was always okay. John knew this. And yet he thought John had looked at him a little anxiously.

But all he said was, “Cheers.”

Eventually, Sherlock rose and carried their wine glasses into the kitchen. He wondered if the tendrils of unspoken words had always hung so thickly between them, even before, and he was only noticing them now, or if they were a new development. Or indeed if every human interaction was always swathed in these translucent veils made of all the monumental things they did not say, veils which might sway slightly in the puffs of air made by the trivial things they chose to voice, but always settled back again. Was that possible? Did everyone live this way all the time? Did they realize it? There was no way to know.

He’d left an unopened toothbrush in the bathroom for John to use when he stayed. He expected that would go unmentioned, too.

John paused at the door of the sitting room on his way upstairs. He looked at Sherlock for a long while. “Good night,” he said, finally. Not moving.

Sherlock met his eyes, feeling exposed under his gaze, wanting him to never look away. He was not sure if his befuddlement showed on his face. So much was out of his control. “Good night, John.”

John nodded, turned, and mounted the stairs to the upstairs room. His room.

As always, Sherlock made sure to be in his bed before John was, to hear him rustle and turn before sleep.

***

Sherlock was up early the next morning. He working on brick dust when John wandered down in his trousers and vest. By the time John was out of the bathroom, Sherlock had a pot of tea made, and was back at his table. Unusually, there was bread. There was jam, too. John made them toast, which Sherlock ate.

After breakfast, John didn’t leave. He wandered around a little, seeming at a loose end. He sat in his armchair and flipped through some of the reading material nearby, but set it down again in fairly short order. He fidgeted – slapped his palms on the arms of the chair, resettled his feet on the floor, breathed a restless sigh. Looked around. His fingers drummed ceaselessly.

Sherlock put up with the distraction for as long as he could (longer than in the old days, but still not very long), and then spoke.

“There’s a laptop under the sofa. You can use that one.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock sighed. “A laptop. You want to use one.” Distinctly. Sherlock sighed again, and waited for the inevitable question that would come before he got an answer. _How did you know?_ Predictable.

But John only said, “I – yes, I would, that’s exactly what I was wanting. Thank you.”

Sherlock paused a moment. Wasn’t he going to ask…? But John only looked at him expectantly, so he shook himself and got up to unearth the computer. It still had a charger attached, though it wasn’t actually plugged in. He handed it to John, wire trailing, and then endured several minutes of _pother_ while John cleared himself a place opposite Sherlock at the breakfast table. He seated himself, opened the laptop, muttered under his breath, crawled under the table, shifted a box to free up an electrical socket, reached up for the charger, plugged it in, got tangled in his chair as he backed out from under the table, and _at last_ settled himself at his place with a working laptop.

Sherlock took a deep breath and prepared to re-apply himself to his task. (Finally.)

Then John, still looking at the startup screen, gave in and said, “How did you know?”

 _Ah._ Sherlock felt a warm swell of satisfaction. Aloud, he said, “Know what?”

“Come on, Sherlock. You know what.” John was getting harder to fool. “How did you know I wanted a laptop?”

“You told me.” It was part of the dance.

“I didn’t say anything.” John knew the litany as well as he did.

“Not out loud. But you sat in your reading chair and rejected every piece of reading material you had access to. You sighed loudly and shifted your arms and legs – clearly, that wasn’t where you wanted to be. Not keen to sit there, therefore not keen to read. Obvious. Your fingers were drumming, wanting to type. I wish you typed as fast as you drummed, frankly, but that’s plainly what you were thinking about. You kept looking over to the table at your blogging chair, but you didn’t go and sit in it, because you didn’t have a computer. Conclusion? The only way I was going to get any peace at all was if I lent you a laptop. Simple.”

His reward was John’s warm smile, the one that said _extraordinary_ even if he didn’t utter the word out loud. That, too, was part of it, Sherlock’s favourite part. He could not imagine tiring of it.

“That never gets old, you know.” John said. Off-piece. Saying exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up in surprise. John was still smiling at him. It usually didn’t last this long.

“Your explanations. The way you know things. It’s always amazing.” _Oh._

He felt an answering smile tugging at his own lips. He allowed it.“You’ve always said so.”

“Yeah.” John looked thoughtful. “I have.” They regarded one another across the table for another moment. For a moment, John looked like he might say something more, but then something on the computer screen caught his attention and his eyes flicked down, and Sherlock took the opportunity to get back to his brick dust.

After a moment, he glanced up again. John was frowning down at the laptop, so Sherlock didn’t wait to be asked. “Billy.”

“Hm? Billy what?”

“The password. Should I have let you guess? Upper case B. Billy.”

“Your skull is your password?”

“On that computer, yes. He and I aren’t the friends we once were.”

John entered the password. “I sometimes blog on the sofa. Or at my actual _own flat_.”

“Pardon?” He was never going to get anything done.

“I don’t have a blogging chair. Or a reading chair.” Oh, John was miffed at being so predictable. Well, it was his own fault.

“Yes, you do. That’s where you blog,” Sherlock nodded crisply at where he was sitting at the table. “And -” glancing over at his armchair by the fire - “That’s where you read.”

John sniffed. “Not always.”

“Balance of probability. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Shut up.” He sniffed again, and turned his attention back to his writing. But he was smiling.

Sherlock had often been told to shut up in his time, usually when he was inconveniently correct about something, but as he returned to his experiment he reflected that even that felt much more pleasant when John did it.

***

Confounding, bewildering, baffling. Sherlock hated to admit it, but he had no idea what was driving John. He was not angry at Sherlock, he was not avoiding Sherlock, he was not uncomfortable, but he had said no, and he was not explaining. He was making no mention of his – what was the opposite of _outburst_? He was here, staying longer than usual, saying nice things to Sherlock, and falling into his habits from years before, but that was all. Puzzling. Perplexing. Vexing.

Concentrate. If he was ever going to solve this – _crime_ , he wanted to call it, and struggled with himself briefly before settling on _case_ – he was going to need data. Observing John was useless. He could tell nothing. Nothing of importance, anyway. Nothing to suggest a reasonable course of action. He watched him anyway.

He had to watch him with his eyes averted, as John was stealing little glances at Sherlock while he blogged. He always did that when he wrote up cases. He shifted and sighed as he sought the right words, making hideous faces, as though language were something that could, with effort, be willed into submission. Sherlock felt a swell of nostalgia for those times in the early days when he had first observed John’s habits at his computer. He would scowl, or shake his head, or chuckle, or come up with some new thought that he would share aloud with Sherlock, regardless of how assiduously Sherlock pretended not to care what he was up to.

Today John was silent as he worked. That, at least, was different. The rest was as it had always been, and as such, hideously uninformative.

Well, Sherlock was, after all, a detective. He would investigate, and see what he could find.

Just then, John pressed enter with the particular quirk of his wrist which signified that he had completed a blog post. _Ah._ That’s where Sherlock would start. John had always been so candid in his blog posts, revealing much more than Sherlock thought he intended. Even in something so simple as the write-up of a case (a case John hadn’t even participated in, thought Sherlock, not without bitterness) was sure to contain something he could use. He couldn’t wait to open up his own laptop and find out what John had written, sift through it for every hidden tidbit, every morsel of data discernible only to Sherlock’s incisive gaze.

He’d do it after John left, of course.

***

Some hours later, when John had taken his leave, Sherlock called up the blog on his phone. 

 _The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson._ Sherlock scrolled up past The Silent Witness and – stopped. There was no other entry.

That couldn’t be right. He had seen the flourish of John’s hand, it only ever meant one thing, and yet there was nothing there. Odd.

Almost absently, Sherlock’s mind began whirring through possibilities. Perhaps he had put a delay on his posting (Motive? And would John even know how to do that?) or perhaps he was blogging on a different site (why?) or perhaps the connection had been faulty and it hadn’t uploaded properly. He could get out the laptop that John had used and try to retrace John’s steps, or perhaps he’d saved his work on the local drive… but just then a new item on the side menu caught his eye: _Private Posts._

He clicked on it, and almost cackled when he found a single entry, marked only with the date. He clicked on that, too.

A dialogue box opened: **A password is required to view this post. Enter your password below.**

Intriguing. John had password-protected his latest post. He had never done that before. All of his other blog entries were public, anyone could read them. He had talked about their cases, even alluding to some that were classified. He had talked about his feelings. He had talked about Sherlock’s death, and his return, and about Mary. He’d put – Sherlock thought – his whole life on his blog, and had never shown any concern for who might read it. Conclusion: Whatever John had written this time was more private than anything he’d ever posted before. Further, he did not want it seen.

Here Sherlock began to argue with himself. John did not want it seen by his _readers_ , that was all. By any stranger who happened by, or the dozens (hundreds?) of people who still subscribed to his blog. It was more personal than that, all right, but of course he would mean his friends to read it. Sherlock wasn’t just a reader, after all. Besides, he needed to know what was in that post. It could contain crucial evidence. (But evidence for a case he hadn’t been asked to solve.)

Sherlock struggled with himself for most of the afternoon, which surprised him. Time was, he would not have had any inkling that there was a struggle to be had. It should have been simple: He wanted to solve this puzzle, he was missing data, data that was probably contained in this private post, and there was no doubt he’d be able to guess John’s password. Motive and means. The existence of any further consideration would never had occurred to him, not so long ago.

Now, though, he was torn. He was trying to solve this case for his own ends, yes, because he desperately wanted John to give up on whatever was holding him back and come home, but also for John’s sake, because although he was certainly more at ease with himself than he’d been during that first visit, there was something fragile dwelling only slightly below his veneer of composure and it wasn’t going away. Sherlock needed to read this, to find out what John wanted.

But John had put a password on it, which meant that John did not want anyone to read it.

And John had put a password on it, so he would be angry if he knew Sherlock had read it.

But John had put a password on it, which for Sherlock was like honey to a bee.

In the end, he lost the struggle (or won it). The password was _Billytheskull_ , which struck him as strange, for some reason, but he dismissed the feeling and read on.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I delight in hearing from you. Leave a comment, if you like, or come see me on  
> [Tumblr](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retaining the facility with which he guesses John's passwords, Sherlock ventures into the Private Posts section of John's blog. He is convinced that doing so will provide him with crucial evidence as to why John refuses to come back to their old life. By the end of the chapter, Sherlock will have more data than he knows what to do with - and he won't know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the brilliant  
> [SincerelyChaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos) for the much-needed beta work that got this chapter postable and reassured me that writing is at least as good a use of my time as crocheted animals.
> 
> Trigger warning: The case involves a husband and father who has committed suicide, and a short, vague discussion of his motivations for doing so. You could probably skip the case proper without missing too much. I mean, I wrote it, so I think it's important, but not more important than your peace of mind, you know?  
> There's also an allusion to John's own experience of suicidal thoughts, but that's really, really oblique. For now. I'll warn you when necessary later on.

Sherlock read the post. He read it again, which he rarely bothered to do. Afterwards, he sat silently and thought over what he’d read, trying not to identify the feeling which crept over him. After several moments, though, he gave it a name. Disappointment.

This was not what he’d expected. He hadn’t necessarily thought that John would spell everything out - he was writing a private post, after all, presumably meant only for his own eyes – but he’d thought there might be something.

It was completely impenetrable. Sherlock gazed glumly at the screen. A third reading was unlikely to yield anything helpful, but there was nothing else to do.

 

 **Doctor John H. Watson:** **Private Blog**

**Harry and I got on much better when we were kids. We were left on our own fairly often, especially after our mum got sick, and we sort of banded together. Covered for each other, I mean. Our dad was quite strict and conservative, religious too, so there were a lot of things he didn’t approve of. It was bad if we got caught out - at pretty much anything. We had to avoid it. He could get violent sometimes. When I think about it now, I realise that he was obviously stressed about mum’s illness, but at the time we were just frightened. Not enough to stay out of trouble, mind you! But enough that it was a big deal if we didn’t protect each other. Provide alibis, that sort of thing.**

**Dad was always really worried about who we spent time with. Well, of course Harry was spending time with girls, which our dad was pretty happy about (he was really against her having anything to do with boys, which is quite a laugh in a way), but it wasn’t always the right girls. He had a very clear idea about what kind of kids we should associate with. For me, he wanted me in sport, and doing things he thought blokes should do. I didn’t mind. I always liked rugby anyway, which he approved of. Harry had a harder time finding things she liked that made him happy. Or maybe she never really tried. By the time we were teenagers she seemed to always be looking for something to fight with him about. Mum had died by this time.**

**Dad left me in peace, because I was mostly doing what he thought I should. I liked being left alone.**

**Harry, though. She picked fights. She was getting ready to ‘come out’, I guess. I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew she preferred girls, but honestly, I didn’t know what that meant. Dad talked a lot about ‘poofs’ so I knew what gay was, but I’d never really heard much about lesbians or anything else. I hardly knew it existed. So when Harry came out it was a surprise. Not that she was gay, just that it was a thing at all. Of course once I knew what it meant it was obvious she was.**

**Dad was furious. And if I’m honest, I think I was a little angry too. Not because she was gay. I just didn’t see why she had to tell him – we never told him anything else, and this was obviously going to drive him round the twist. Peace and quiet were hard enough to come by in our house without going looking for trouble. It didn’t do her any good, either, since now she had to fight and sneak around to be able to see her girlfriend. I always thought it would be better to just not say anything. When the reaction can’t be anything but negative.**

**Of course the pressure on me to be what he wanted was much, much stronger after that. Not that it was a problem. I played rugby, I went to medical college, I joined the army. I went to war. He never exactly said he was proud of me, but he wasn’t ashamed to talk about me, to neighbours and whatnot. Whereas with Harry he was.**

**We were never as close after that. She thinks I don’t like her being gay. She thinks I deliberately made choices to appease Dad, which maybe I did, but I didn’t do it to make her look bad. She knows I don’t like her drinking, and she thinks I look down on her for it. I don’t. I don’t blame her for anything. I can see now, with who she was, that none of the choices she could have made were very appealing. When you’re faced with an impossible situation, all the options you have are bad ones.**

***

Re-reading it didn’t help at all. Where was the _evidence_? What Sherlock was after was some inkling of John’s state of mind now, and here were only reminiscences about his past. His distant past. How was it _relevant_? Why wasn’t John writing about anything that _mattered_?

There was nothing in there that Sherlock hadn’t already known about John. He had a difficult relationship with his father – Sherlock hadn’t even been sure John’s father was still alive until the wedding, to which the man hadn’t even been invited. That his relationship with Harry was strained as well was also no secret, though John had been disappointed that she hadn’t been there. That Harry was gay – Sherlock had known that almost from the beginning, (though it still irked him that he’d failed to deduce she was a sister and not a brother). It was a little surprising that John was willing to admit he’d made some major life choices at least in part to please his father, but as far as Sherlock understood human motivations, he didn’t think this was particularly atypical, for a young boy. John as an adult certainly didn’t defer to anyone else when making major decisions, though, so that aspect of his youth was hardly relevant now.

The only part of the whole post that might have any applicability to their current situation was John’s preference – hardly a newsflash – for leaving difficult things unspoken. He rarely, if ever, willingly entered into a discussion of awkward topics or – god forbid – feelings.

Actually – and here Sherlock pulled his thought process up abruptly, dealing with a new idea – actually, John hadn’t always been like that. He thought back to when they’d first been flatmates, and then friends. Back then it had felt as if John was at him constantly to _talk_ , to discuss, to _open up_. _Do you care about them at all? What are you thinking about? How are we feeling about that?_ Or even, _Do you have a girlfriend?_ But even back then it had always been questions, requests for information about what _Sherlock_ was thinking, what Sherlock was feeling. He tried to remember a time when John had volunteered information about himself. He couldn’t.

And certainly Sherlock had never asked. He didn’t know anything about John that he hadn’t deduced himself, from the data that presented itself. Over the years, that was quite a lot. Enough, he felt. He knew who John was to him. That knowledge couldn’t possibly be enhanced by any amount of - what to call it? _Backstory._ He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He didn’t need that to understand John. John was _John_. It had always been enough for him.

Perhaps that was why John’s attempts to elicit information had always had the effect of putting Sherlock on the wrong foot, every time, and his own instinct had always been to deflect, to ignore, to discourage. John had kept trying for a long time.

Sherlock wondered, now, when he had stopped.

 _Irrelevant._ Back to the blog post. Because look, John must have been writing it for a reason. He had never written any private posts before, Sherlock would have noticed, so if he was doing it now, there must be something important in there. It would be shortsighted of Sherlock not to realise that, in spite of appearances.

The post was important to John, that much was certain. On the other hand, there was perhaps no reason to assume that it necessarily had anything to do with _Sherlock_. Sherlock’s own mind was almost constantly worrying at this issue, of bringing John home, and bringing him closer, and talking to him when he was actually there, and touching him, and hearing his sounds, and learning his body - so familiar and so maddeningly unknown - _oh god._

But perhaps John wasn’t thinking about Sherlock much at all.

Perhaps Harry was on his mind at the moment instead, and he was trying to work through his relationship with his sister. Of course that would be important to John. She was family, after all.

Sherlock was trying to look through John’s blog for _hidden layers_ , but why should he assume there were any? John was...not simple, not a goldfish...but remarkably adept at ignoring that fact more or less indefinitely. And if there were indeed something to read from between the lines of what he’d written, there was no reason to assume that they related to Sherlock at all. After all, it was a private blog. With a password. (A password that was, admittedly, obvious, but then the Major in charge of a top secret scientific facility running scores of illegal experiments, had chosen his password based on whatever had been at eye-level at the time, so there was no telling how simple-minded people were willing to be, even supposedly intelligent ones.) Sherlock was not even supposed to be reading it.

He’d keep trying, of course, but it was looking distinctly discouraging.

**“I always thought it would be better to just not say anything. When the reaction can’t be anything but negative.”**

(Was this  the relevant part? Is that what John thought, about whatever it was he was keeping to himself?)

**“When you’re faced with an impossible situation, all the options you have are bad ones.”**

***

Sherlock watched John. He had always watched John, of course, sufficient to deduce his sleep habits or recent exercise. This was different. Now that he had allowed his...desires...to surface and hold his attention (he hadn’t _allowed_ it, the desires themselves had _demanded_ it), he found it difficult to ignore them whenever John was present. He wanted to focus on the problem: John was unhappy. John would be happier living in 221B. John refused to come back. These were major concerns, and he was no closer to figuring it out, despite how hopeful he’d been about the blog post. By now he had (of necessity, pending further evidence) dismissed the private blog as a red herring, and he had no idea where to look for more evidence without provoking a negative reaction in John.

And in the midst of his swirling, repetitive cogitations would come, unbidden, the vision of sunlight on John’s hair while he read. That patch of hair would be warmer than the rest, Sherlock knew. He wanted to feel it on his face.

Or they would eat together, and there would be a fleck of sauce at the corner of John’s mouth (not for long, John was always very tidy) that Sherlock would want to wipe away with his thumb (or his lips).

Or there would be John coming in after cycling from work, and there would be beads of sweat on his nose. _Sweat_ on his _nose_ , and Sherlock would be wondering what it would _taste_ like. Of _course_ he wasn't getting anything done.

There was not a part of John’s body that Sherlock did not want to touch with his own skin or taste with his mouth.  

He wondered if he was now obligated, in the interests of full disclosure, to change the content of the invitation he had issued to John. His imagination, as highly developed as it was, refused to even consider how that conversation would go, given the outcome of the last one.

***

He took a case as a distraction. Not a dangerous case: a dead husband (not suspicious - a heart attack) and an oblique reference to a missing will.

The client was Julia Barnes, the man’s wife, and she was genuinely distressed. Her husband, a doctor, had apparently been healthy, she said, and they had not really discussed what they would do when one of them died – nor made any preparations for that eventuality. Except that a month or so ago, her husband had mentioned that he had, in fact, made some sort of provision – she admitted that she’d been helping the kids with their homework at the time and hadn’t paid much attention.

“I just didn’t – of course that sort of thing is important, we’d often agreed on that, but we hadn’t made any progress on the matter since Ian was born, and I didn’t see what the big hurry was. And then later I forgot to ask him about it.”

“It’s hardly much to go on.” Sherlock was more patient with emotional clients than he had been of old, but a case that consisted of a half-remembered comment from weeks ago, and no data…?

“I realise that. But the children are getting older, and if there’s any chance that he’s made some provision for them...I owe it to them to be sure. It’s bad enough that they’ve lost their father...”

Sherlock took the case, purely out of a desire for a difficult intellectual challenge.

No excitement, but diligent searching, looking for patterns. Sherlock enjoyed this sort of task. Legal records, medical records, mobile phone history. Sherlock traced the dead man’s movements through his final days and attempted to put together the most likely scenarios. It was proving to be fiendishly difficult, for a variety of reasons, and Sherlock soon had the paperwork spread all over the flat.

After several focused hours, he had a short list of people to interview. It was late, and there was nothing more he could do before morning, so he went to bed. First thing in the morning, he folded himself into his coat and went out.

***

He returned just after lunchtime, frustrated and no further ahead than he’d been when he left. John was there, sitting on the floor and studying the medical records.

He looked up as Sherlock entered the room. “New case?”

“Yes. Young father. His wife thinks there may be a will or an insurance policy she doesn’t know about. Trying to track it down.”

“Seems a little tame for you, no?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John rose from the floor, stretching. “Anyway, if it’s a newer policy, it won’t do her much good, right?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, they usually don’t pay out for suicides, do they? Not if the policy is less than a year old.”

Sherlock stared at him. “This was a heart attack.”

“Yeah. But he was a doctor. Look, here.” He moved some papers aside and picked up part of the medical file. “Look at this report. You seldom get these patterns in naturally occurring heart attacks, and he was young and healthy. And knowledgeable. There wasn’t a toxicity report – why would there be? Straightforward. There wouldn’t be much investigation, despite his age. He was counting on that.”

The deductions fell into place after that. Mr. Barnes had been admirably responsible, considering. He knew his children would not be adequately provided for with the preparations he and his wife had made, and he did not want to leave them financially as well as emotionally traumatised. He must have taken out a new insurance policy, with a different company, but needed to hide the fact that his death was a suicide to ensure payout.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, Sherlock whirled through the papers like a tornado. Two phone calls - one to the couple’s usual insurance provider and one to the client -- confirmed what Sherlock had already deduced, and when he ran out to meet Mrs. Barnes, John came along. They were halfway to the bank when Sherlock realised what was happening – _John had come along_ – and straightened up, wondering if he should say anything. He had no idea what to say. Perhaps it was best to say nothing, and carry on as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Which, as far as Sherlock was concerned, it was.

The policy information was found in a safe deposit box that the couple had maintained for years. With it were the notes. One for Mrs. Barnes and one each for the children, to be opened when their mother deemed it appropriate, or by the children themselves when they came of age.

“I don’t understand.” She looked – blank. Sherlock drew a breath and realised that he suddenly had no idea how to speak to her. He knew what he would have done in the old days, and how cruel it would have been, but he hadn’t known, _he hadn’t known_ , and now he knew, but he did not know how else to be. His mouth was open and he had _absolutely nothing to say_.

“It was the medical records that told us.” John. He was speaking softly, just to her. “He did it on purpose.” She blinked at him, and he clarified: “It was suicide. I’m sorry. He was trying his best to provide for you, that’s why he needed to make it look natural.”

“To provide for us? That’s – that’s –” She stopped, at a loss.

“I’m not saying it makes sense. But you’re – you’re in a strange place, when you’re suicidal. Some things are completely logical and methodical – the policy, the notes – and others are...divorced from reality. He may have believed you’d be better off without him.”

“We’re not.” Softly. The tears spilled over now. “We’re _not_.”

“No.” John did not say anything else.

The tears continued to flow, but the client was surprisingly calm as she took it all in. She took a deep breath and blinked a few times, looking from John to Sherlock as she processed. At last she said, “I suppose it’s best to know the truth.” She sounded unconvinced. “But of course the policy is useless.”

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, yes, it is, we know he – he killed himself. That invalidates the policy, surely.”

“What you choose to disclose to the insurance provider is up to you.” Sherlock spoke plainly. “The hospital considers your husband’s death to be of natural causes. Unproblematic. The police are not involved, and have no reason to be. I am aware that my moral sense is somewhat more...fluid, perhaps, than other people’s, but I will tell you now, I have no intention of disclosing the details of this case to anyone. John?”

John shook his head. “I won’t be blogging this one. You do what you think is best, for you and your family. You’ll get no judgment from either of us.”

Mrs. Barnes was silent at this. She could see the implications, what they were suggesting. At last she said, “It appears I have a lot to think about. Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I appreciate all you’ve done.”

Before they left, John handed her an old card of Ella’s. “She’s got some experience with suicide. She might help you sort through things, if you want.”

There were a lot of things in the whole exchange that Sherlock tried hard not to think about. John’s knowledge of suicide... _No_. It was time to go.

***

John and Sherlock made their way back to Baker Street, not speaking. It had felt so natural for John to come along. He’d followed Sherlock as he had been used to do, as if drawn in a slipstream. They’d always worked so effortlessly together in the old days, and after he’d returned they’d quickly fallen into their old rhythms. Sherlock followed the case, and John followed Sherlock.

Today had been a little different, though. Sherlock would never have figured out this case without John, he could admit that. That in itself was not new. He had always relied on John’s medical knowledge to fill in the gaps in his own. John saw different things than he did, he asked different questions, and his perspective had often led Sherlock to a breakthrough. The difference today was in the culmination of the case, in revealing the solution to the client. Sherlock’s usual style was, of course, to unveil his deductions with a flourish, and wait for everyone to be impressed with his cleverness. Impressed or irritated, that is. Usually both. If John was there he might admonish Sherlock for his insensitivity, but he had never really stopped him from running roughshod over everyone present, be they criminals, victims, or innocent bystanders.

Today was one of the times when Sherlock’s usual style would have been completely inappropriate, but this time he knew it. And when he had pulled up short, and not known what to say, there was John, ready to step in. _That_ was new. He had spoken to the woman in a way that addressed both her grief and her intelligence. She was already badly, deeply hurt, and John had managed not to hurt her more. It was...extraordinary. Sherlock would not have been able to do that.

Despite his earlier setback, Sherlock was still convinced his best course was to be honest with John. As they settled into the sitting room, Sherlock spoke.

“It was good of you to come along today.”

John looked up – warily. “Not at all.”

Sherlock wondered at the wariness. “I mean, it was good to have you. I was glad to have you.” Sherlock was repeating himself, he knew, but as the wording changed, so did the meaning. Maybe John would understand.

He seemed to. He relaxed, anyway. “Yeah, thanks. I won’t say it was fun, this time.” He smiled, though.

“No. But it was good you were there. I would have cocked it up. I am not adept at kindness.”

John stared. “You? You _are_ kind.” He looked at his hands. “You’re much kinder than I am.”

Sherlock snorted. “That is a ridiculous statement. You knew how to speak to her. You said the right thing, when there was no right thing to say. It was...good. Very good.” He made a frustrated noise. When had he become so inarticulate? “Look, it’s a skill I don’t have. I appreciated it. It was good to have you with me.”

“I miss going on cases.” Out of nowhere.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Then said the obvious: “You’re welcome anytime.” Not enough. “I miss it too. I miss having you. I miss you.” _Shut up now._

“Yeah. Me, too.” He met Sherlock’s gaze with a long look. This was one of those moments when Sherlock felt like they understood one another perfectly. When he felt like John would welcome a touch from Sherlock, would welcome the feelings Sherlock wanted so badly to heap at his feet like an offering. When he felt like all he would need to do was to extend an arm across the space between them, extend an open hand, and John would lay his cheek in Sherlock’s palm, and they would breathe together, and not need to speak at all.

Sherlock did not extend his arm, but kept both hands resting casually on his knees, not wringing, not clenching. After a moment, John cleared this throat and reached for the newspaper. Sherlock blinked twice and allowed it. After all, apart from one unhelpful private blog post, he did not have any new information yet to force another confrontation. John missed going on cases. Add that to the list.

***

And then the next day, another private post appeared. The password this time was _BarnesCase_. Something about John’s password choices was niggling at him… but on the plus side, Sherlock’s conscience gave him hardly a twinge this time.

 

**Doctor John H. Watson: Private Blog**

**I am very good at fitting in. I am not that nice, or that funny, or whatever it is that people like in a casual acquaintance, but I generally fit in. I’m good at being nondescript. Even when people know – know better, I still come across as ordinary. Unremarkable. Slightly invisible. That actually suits me down to the ground. I’d much rather people think that. Hell, it’s usually true.**

**But not always. I realised before long there were some things that were really, really different about me. The way I dealt with feelings. The way I dealt with other people. The way I reacted to risk and danger, the way I craved them, just for the sake of feeling something. Right? Really, really different. I don’t think anyone ever noticed – no one was looking at me – but I was actually terrified that they would. When you’re a kid, that stuff feels really huge. (I guess not just when you’re a kid.)**

**Anyway, I was sure there must be something wrong with me, ethically. Morally. That's what I thought. For a while I thought I might be a psychopath, once I’d heard of that. Or a sociopath – ironic, isn’t it? (When I first heard Sherlock call himself a sociopath, you can believe that caught my attention.) I kind of know better now, but still, a lot of what I do that comes across as nice or friendly or sensitive is stuff I’ve learned to do in order to appear normal.**

**Becoming a doctor was my response to what I saw as my deficiencies.  Working in the A &E was brilliant, though I’m one of the few to say so. I realised that there were some things I was exactly right for. Whatever it was I had, it wasn’t a defect at all, it wasn’t. It was a skill. Or a talent. For being…I think of it as being on the edges of things. Where they transition. Life to death. Safety to danger. Right to wrong. I could function there. Better than anywhere else. And better than anyone else, too. We need that, we all do. People to stand at the edges and make hard choices for us.  I could do it. This made a difference to people when it counted, and that felt amazing. It felt so good to be helping, to be doing good in a way that no one else could. I figured it wouldn't feel that good if there was really something wrong with me. It was such a relief.**

**The army was even more perfect for me. It was the right place for me, though I can’t exactly say I loved it. It was still hard going, to see all those young soldiers injured or killed. They would come out looking so fit and strong, full of – well, it’s a cliché, but Sherlock tells me I use a lot of those, might as well own it – full of life. That’s what they were. They were so at ease in their bodies that they didn’t even think about them. When they weren’t on duty, they were like puppies together, none of them ever walked anywhere. They romped and leapt and jostled – hell, they even scampered. So sure of themselves, so sure their legs would be where they needed them, when they landed. So goddamned beautiful, all of them. I was only a few years older but it was enough for me to marvel at them.**

**And enough for me to be really, really gutted when they started dying.**

**But I took all that - whatever it was. Call it caring. Or love, I guess, though that’s hard to write even here. I took it and let it make me better at what I had to do. And that was a relief, too. Caring meant that whatever was different about me was still…okay. And the longer I stayed, the more sure I was that this was the place for me, this was where my talent was most needed.**

**Which I guess is why having to be a civilian again came as such a shock. Because as long as I could be useful on those edges, I could convince myself there wasn’t anything wrong with me.**

**And when I got back, I found myself at my own edges. I don’t think I can write about that right now.**

***

Sherlock finished reading and wondered how well he knew John Watson after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally came on a case with Sherlock - just happened to be there, just happened to come along - and it was _wonderful_. His immediate goal is to get him to do it again, and John is...reluctant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [itsallfine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine) looked at a completely different chapter a week or so ago and suggested a different approach ("How about some dialogue? And, you know, something actually _happening_?") and you should all be grateful for that because that version was...not very good. (You can tell me if you think this version is any better.)  
> [SincerelyChaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos) is another beta superstar, who actually reviewed this chapter while IN BED with A FEVER. That's dedication, folks.

John’s private blog went quiet for a while, and his visits returned to being uneventful. This in spite of the fact that Sherlock’s new mission was to get John interested in whatever case he was working on at that moment, and hopefully to join in on the ‘legwork’. With Moriarty’s network completely dismantled at last, the number of truly bizarre cases had fallen somewhat, but there were enough garden-variety nutters still operating to give Sherlock his pick of cases that ‘could be dangerous.’ These were, traditionally, the best options with which to woo John Watson. But really, any case would do (or would have done, once upon a time).

Having John with him on the Barnes case had been absolutely wonderful. He had been so...valuable. Luminous in his own right, even. And for Sherlock, having had that one taste, a reminder of how it felt to have John along, it became imperative to have it again, as soon and as often as possible. It proved more difficult than he expected.

***

It began three days after the Barnes case, when John sent Sherlock a text.

_You there? Thought I’d come round today._

_Good. Case. Art theft. Hoxton. Join me? SH_

_You’re going to steal some art?_

_Unfortunately not. Interviewing a witness. SH_

_You don’t need a doctor for that. Tell me about it tomorrow._

***

The following Monday, Sherlock was packing a small rucksack when John came up the stairs. He did not look up. “Oh, good, John. You’re here. I’m off to a building site. You can come along.”

John paused with his hands on the buttons of his jacket. “A building site?”

“Well, the site office, actually.” A torch, his lockpicks...oh, yes, Lestrade’s ID. Sherlock did not want to forget anything.

“Do you have a meeting with someone?”

“...No. This is somewhat spur-of-the-moment.”

“Sherlock, it’s 9:30 at night. Who do you think is going to be in the office at a building site?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, looking pointedly at John. “ _No one_ , John.”

“Ah. A little light B&E, then, is it?” John did his best to look disapproving.

Sherlock grinned. “Your favourite. Coming?”

“Coming with you to break into the office at a building site during off hours?”

“Well, we could wait until the office opens again in the morning, but it might be a little tricky to scour the place for incriminating evidence at that point, don’t you think?” He tugged the zip of the rucksack shut and swung one strap onto his shoulder. He looked expectantly at John and said, again, “Coming?”

“No, Sherlock, I’m not coming with you to engage in illegal activity.”

Sherlock stared. “Why on earth not?”

“Sherlock, how would it look for a doctor at a community surgery to get arrested for breaking and entering? I could lose my job.”

“What _utter bollocks_ , to borrow your charming phrase. You hate your job.”

“As you have so correctly pointed out, Sherlock, I _need_ my job.”

And that seemed to be it. Sherlock went out alone.

***

_Any interesting bodies? SH_

_Hello to you too._ Molly Hooper was not as meek as she used to be, and occasionally showed glimmers of sarcasm that Sherlock was still getting used to.

_Hello. Any interesting body PARTS? SH_

_One or two. Come and see._

When he got to the mortuary, Molly had gathered a small collection of severed hands. He knew she wouldn’t let him take them home, but it would be soothing to sit and deduce their origins. He set to work.

Molly had her own tasks to complete, but she always made conversation if she had company. “Quiet at home?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You don’t usually come looking for company this early in the day.”

Molly’s powers of observation and deduction ought not to be surprising by now, but he continued to underestimate her. An idiotic mistake. He had no business being caught off-guard. Still, he rallied admirably. “I came looking for human remains. That’s hardly _company_.”

“Well, it’s…” Flustered was still a base state of being for Molly, though, that much hadn’t changed. “Not the body parts. Um, me.”

She was right, of course. Sherlock wanted to be biting, to be scathing, but this was Molly, so he said nothing.

“Besides,” she continued, gaining confidence, “I gave you that carton of scalp samples last week. You can’t be done with those already. So what’s on your mind?”

As if she didn’t know. “Phalanges.” He was holding one, so it was true. Partly.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about John.” A pause. “Or whatever it is.”

Sherlock sighed, put down the finger he’d been examining, and gave up. “It’s John.”

“Not seen him lately?”

“No, that’s just it, I see him _all the time_. He comes by. Drinks tea. Watches telly. Sometimes brings a takeaway. _Visits_. It’s completely absurd.”

It was testament to Molly’s vast emotional intelligence that she did not ask why visiting was absurd. “Ever thought of asking him to move back in?”

Sherlock glared at the pile of hands in front of him. “He said no. He said he wants to, and then he said no, and he didn’t say why.”

Molly considered that, frowning. “Okay, something less...momentous. Why don’t you take him on a case with you?”

Sherlock met her eyes. “I’ve asked. He won’t come.”

“Oh.”

“And it just doesn’t make any _sense_. He’s still living out at that horrible flat in the back of beyond – “

“It’s a nice flat –”

“– that costs too much and barely counts as _London_ –”

“– It’s on the _Metropolitan_ line –”

“And he has to ride the Tube everywhere or take that _ridiculous_ bicycle –”

“–It’s good exercise –”

“And he refuses to come on cases, no matter how _boring_ , no matter how _not dangerous_ , and most of them are hardly even _illegal_ –”

“Hardly even…?”

“And why are you contradicting me? These are _facts_.”

“Well, no, they’re not. It _is_ a nice flat, it _is_ in London, it’s perfectly accessible by Tube. Cycling is good exercise. And avoiding dangerous and illegal activity –”

“–Barely illegal –”

“– Is actually quite rational, at least to most people.”

“ _He’s not most people._ ” He bit it out low, almost a growl. _Don’t growl at Molly_.

But all Molly said was, “Ah.”

A moment passed in which Sherlock saw what Molly thought she had worked out, and couldn’t even disagree with her. He wasn’t going to say it out loud, though. “Anyway, he’s perfectly willing to admit that he wants to move back, he misses coming on cases, and he still won’t do any of it, and it’s completely irrational.” Sherlock paused for breath. “He won’t listen to logic at all.”

“Well, then.” Molly sounded as if that explained everything. It explained _nothing_.

“Well, then, what?” He hated asking.

“Well.” Molly gave a half-apologetic shrug. “Whatever it is, it isn’t logical.”

_Obvious._ John wasn’t being logical. He was acting on sentiment. He was acting on sentiment that went expressly against his stated desires. He was acting on sentiment that he couldn’t or wouldn’t disclose to Sherlock. By his own admission (well, on his private blog – still, an admission of sorts), he’d been practised at hiding his emotions from a very young age. It was possible that he was better at it than Sherlock had ever given him credit for. It was possible that Sherlock was going to have to work a little harder to unlock this particular mystery, but he still had no idea where to start.

Except he really, really wanted John to come along on a case.

***

The next opportunity was for a somewhat cold case, a suspicious death in which no one had been arrested and no suspects had been named. The DI on the case had not wanted to declare it accidental because of a number of discrepancies (which impressed upon Sherlock that she must be rather more astute than many of her colleagues at the Yard), but in the absence of further evidence, the case remained unsolved. In reviewing the documents, Sherlock had spotted something in the victim's brother's testimony that didn't sit right with him, and he was engaged in sifting through everything the police already knew about him. Which was, as expected, next to nothing.

The body had been found in a studio shop that the brothers, Peter and Matthew DuRocher, owned together. Sherlock studied the photos and the testimony, and discovered that the space had undergone extensive renovations a few months before Peter’s death, overseen almost entirely by Matthew.

A flurry of activity (texts, internet searches and map queries) followed. The result:

“I need to go to Kent.” He spoke after a long silence.

“Kent?” John was there. Sherlock was getting better at being aware, when he spoke to John, whether he was actually present or not. (The difference was that when he spoke to an absent John, he was vastly more forthcoming and candid, and said things he barely dared to even think consciously when the real John was there. Whereas when he had the real one, he stuck painstakingly to safe or neutral subjects, but everything he said and thought felt...clearer. Better.)

He flicked his eyes avidly between two computer screens, scrutinising a map. “Outside of Maidstone. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

“For a case?” John was making an effort to hide his eager interest, but his curiosity was obvious. As it always was, up to and including the moment when he declined to come along.

“Yes.” Now was the time to ask him. _He’ll say no. He always says no._ Steeling himself, Sherlock asked anyway. “You said you’re not working tomorrow. Would you like to join me?”

John’s face began to do an odd sort of apologetic wince, a sure precursor to a refusal. “Sherlock, you don’t need to feel like you have to invite me along on cases –”

_Like I have to…?_ It was easy to forget that John, although brilliant, was also an idiot. Completely illogical (which Molly at least seemed to think was not so very strange). But what kind of sentiment would make him think…? _Ridiculous_. He could not rationalise how to approach the irrational, and it was absurd even to try.

He cut him off instead. “John – it’s not that at all. I’d really like you to come. I – I always want you to come.” _Too much? Dial it back - casual._ “It was...rather good, having you along that time. And that case – let’s face it – was quite depressing. Nothing compared to what it would have been if you hadn’t been there, but still, awful all around. You think I don’t take any notice of that sort of thing, but I do. So you should come along on something – you know, cheerier.”

“Cheery?” John looked understandably sceptical.

“Well, I say _cheery_. It’s still most likely a murder. But it’s also a nice outing in the countryside.” _I don’t want to go alone._ That was the truth. _I’ll be so lonely if you don’t come._ Good lord, where did that come from? Possibly, though, it was also true. But if he said it, and John still said no, what then? (Had Sherlock always been such a coward?)  At last he settled on, “Please?” He stopped when he saw John jerk his head up in surprise. Then, without thinking about it, he added, “I could... I could use the company, actually.”

There. If John did not know from Sherlock’s words what an astronomical admission this was, from the fact that he’d even said please unprompted, he would know from one look at him. Sherlock, adept at shifting his face, his body language, his whole demeanour, in order to deflect and mislead, was somehow at this moment unable to raise his eyes from his own hands, where they rested on a keyboard. He could feel the heat (and colour, he assumed) rising in his cheeks. He felt conspicuously, nakedly obvious. John would have to notice. (If John were looking at him at all.)

John’s silence stretched out for a long moment. When he drew in a breath and let out a long sigh, Sherlock dared to look up. John’s face was...resigned, a little. And slightly pleased at the same time. _Soft_. It was...rather lovely, really.

And then, wonder of wonders, John said, “All right.”

“I – really?” Sherlock could feel his face lighting up and he was powerless to prevent it. “I didn’t – I…” Sherlock was a stuttering idiot. This is where feelings got you. “Thank you.”

The soft, tender look was briefly replaced by a worried frown, but John just said, “Sure.” And Sherlock did see the tenderness again later in the evening, several times, when John thought himself to be unobserved. Unfortunately, whenever he saw it, the frown was never far away.

***

Maidstone East station was not quite an hour’s ride away from London. During the trip, Sherlock filled John in on some of the facts of the case, and why they were paying a visit to a seemingly unrelated metalworker in the Kentish countryside.

“He’s not a suspect. But the closets in the studio were kitted out with racks that this studio custom made to Matthew DuRocher’s specifications, and I need to know more about them.”

“Not dangerous, then.” John read the page Sherlock had handed him.

“Probably not.” Sherlock admitted. Then, ever so lightly, “Are you sorry you came?”

John looked across at Sherlock’s face with an expression of surprise at the question. He let his eyes linger there for much longer than was his custom. After a moment, Sherlock returned his gaze. John still did not look away. “No,” he said finally. “Not sorry at all.”

It was Sherlock who looked down first, a warm feeling blooming under his sternum.

***

The man they were questioning was Timothy Howell. He was in his fifties and had the gnarled muscles and direct gaze of someone who has spent a lifetime working outdoors, using his own hands to build things, solving his own problems, and not suffering fools. He was more gruff than actually rude, and when he met them at the gate of his work yard, Sherlock paused a moment to decide how best to approach him.

John apparently felt no such hesitation. He extended a hand. “John Watson.”

“Tim Howell.” They exchanged a brief handshake. “The workshop’s through here.”

Within moments the two of them seemed to come to an understanding. They were not chatting, precisely; there was something too terse and masculine about it to call it chatting. It was more that the two men seemed to recognise each other, John's steady practicality meeting Howell's clear-eyed competence. This kind of easy manliness was John's element, not Sherlock's. He determined that he could learn more by staying silent. John knew what they were after.

Howell brought them through to a tidy workshop, where a large black ring binder lay open on a desk.

“These are the DuRocher plans.”

“You keep everything hard copy?”

Howell gave a brief laugh. “I print it, yeah. All the specs are on the computer, but I need to see it on paper.” The printed page was dotted with small, precise annotations in pencil.

“Easier to work with.” John was the same way about paper, in spite of his blogging.

“Yeah.” Howell turned over the page. “This was the unusual bit here.”

Sherlock was silent but attentive as the two men pored over the plans, John asking pertinent questions and Howell answering crisply. It took a few minutes before an observation that had been clamouring for Sherlock's attention squeezed itself through the details of the case to the forefront of his mind. It was nothing to do with the case. This man liked John. _Well, yes, obviously_.

But more than that, he was _attracted_ to John. 

It was unmistakable. Howell was responding to John's no-nonsense manner with twinkling eyes and a small twisting smile, and he was allowing his eyes to wander unhurriedly over John's body – mouth, then back to eyes. Chest, drifting down to his stomach, then calmly back up. Hips, pelvis, _penis_. Then calling John's attention to something across the workshop so that John turned, and flicking his gaze down John’s shoulders and over his backside. _Dear lord_.

Furthermore, Howell’s forthright approach evidently extended to his sexuality, and he was making no attempt to disguise his appreciation. Even John was sure to notice. Now, John had never shown the least sign of homophobia that Sherlock had ever seen. He’d always made it abundantly clear that he and Sherlock were not a couple, but that was only the simple truth. And of course Sherlock had often thought – though he knew that in this of all things he was not immune to the dangers of _wishful thinking_ –  that John might conceivably, in some versions of reality, feel something more than friendship for Sherlock. But that wasn’t the same as welcoming advances from just any man.

On balance, Sherlock felt that this kind of overt attention from a man was sure to make John at least a little uncomfortable. It was certainly making Sherlock uncomfortable. He smothered a gnarly feeling he suspected was jealousy by telling himself that John would surely shut this down as soon as he noticed.

Indeed, as he watched, John was just intercepting Howell's gaze as it wandered back up to his face and Sherlock waited with smug anticipation for his reaction...and then John _smiled_.

Sherlock had seen that smile before. On dates, or as the lead-up to dates. With _women_. There was no room for doubt here; John was _flirting back_.

Sherlock stared. If the two men had shown the least inclination to look his way, they would have seen him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, completely shocked.

There was no chance – was there? – that John was only doing it for the sake of the case. Sherlock could not be completely mistaken about John’s lack of skill at dissembling – could he? John valued honesty in his dealings anyway, and this case would hardly be sufficient to make him abandon it so easily. But the other alternative was that he was doing it on purpose. Because he was _interested_. Because John was open to... words failed Sherlock here... flirting, going on dates, _oh god,_ having sex? … _with men_. Despite years of protestations to the contrary.

Which possibility was the more improbable?

***

Sherlock was silent on the way back to the train station. He’d solved the case, of course. Once Howell had confirmed that Matthew DuRocher had insisted on hollow, removable tubing for the shelving racks, to very precise specifications, Sherlock easily determined that the cause of death was poison, delivered by a concealed, spring-loaded needle. He texted the DI in charge of the case and told her what to look for at the scene, and then promptly forgot the whole thing. His other observations had a much greater hold on his attention.

John made two or three unsuccessful attempts at conversation on the way, and by the time they got onto the train, he was visibly annoyed.

“Sherlock, are you going to tell me what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“My _knickers_ are fine, John. Save that kind of colourful language for your blog. I am thinking. That’s all. You might consider trying it sometime.”

“And you might consider being a little more polite, since I came all this way to help you gather crucial evidence.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing.”

“Oh, I _see_.” John’s annoyance turned to something that was definitely akin to smugness.

“What?” Sharply. “What is it that you think you see?”

“We finally had a client who wasn’t completely dazzled by you. And it bothers you.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. You walk into every single crime scene looking – well, looking like you do. All elegant and, and dashing, with your coat and your...face. Everyone goes a little dazed. It’s no surprise you get a lot of attention. Most of the time you don’t even notice. But look at this, the one time someone manages to see past your gorgeousness and flirts with ordinary John Watson, you start throwing your toys.”

Sherlock’s brain stuttered to a halt. _John thought he was gorgeous._ Elegant, he’d said. And dashing. (Did people really say ‘dashing’?) And what was that about his face? _Focus, Holmes._ The problem was not that Howell had flirted, it was that John had done it back. Sherlock felt he’d better say something acerbic or the quarrel could quickly get away from him, but all he came up with was, “You’re not ordinary.” _Not quite the tone we were going for, Holmes._ Still, it was true.

John blinked at him, surprised, with just the smallest curl of a smile. “Well, cheers.” His smile twisted, turned into a wry grin. “Don’t worry, though. The student at the ticket desk didn’t even notice me. Order is restored.”

It was only much later that Sherlock realised that John had, by teasing him, effectively diverted the conversation away from the things that Sherlock had found the most startling. He wondered if it could possibly have been deliberate. If John could really be so very skillful at deflection, at deception, after all. It seemed imprudent to dismiss the very idea, in any case.

Could there really be something significant that John had managed to hide from him for all these years? And, if so, did Sherlock dare to harbour any hopes as to what it might be?

***

John stayed over after the trip to Maidstone. Sherlock was always pleased to have him in the flat, but part of him wished, this time, for quiet. Fortunately John had rediscovered his facility with comfortable silence, and tapped away at his laptop (well, Sherlock’s laptop) without expecting Sherlock to speak.

As he lay on the sofa, Sherlock was relieved that John was occupied as well as silent, because he could not keep his gaze from returning to his friend. His treacherous eyes would keep wandering back to where John sat, though he tried valiantly to keep away. It was hardly fair. Tim Howell had not tried to stop his eyes from roaming anywhere at all, and for whatever reason, John had not minded the attention.

Well, why should he? Sherlock had seen right away that these two men were cut from the same cloth. Moreover, apart from being competent and intelligent, Howell was also attractive - above average, Sherlock was forced to admit. _For his age,_ he added, not quite convincing himself he was still being objective. If - if - _if_ John was open to being flirted with by men, surely this was precisely the kind of man he would be interested in? Firm, steady, reliable, like John himself. Quietly confident, again, like John. Willing to take a risk and make his interest known. Like John, from what Sherlock had seen of his behaviour around most moderately attractive women. Yes, like John. Completely unlike Sherlock.

For a moment, there on the sofa, his face blank, Sherlock allowed himself to conjure up what might happen if he did allow his interest to be visible to John. Hiding it was the habit of years now, but what if he let that disguise drop? What if he allowed his eyes to linger on John’s face, like he used to, in the old days, before he was even aware of how much he had to hide?

Why not? Why not a long look into John’s eyes, taking the time to make certain of his focus, and then deliberately dropping his gaze to John’s mouth? _John’s mouth_ , John’s expressive, delicate mouth. Then back up to his eyes, to be sure John saw that his actions were intentional, were in fact _full_ of intent.

He pictured John’s shock when he realised that Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – was gazing at him in this way. Shock, giving way almost instantly to desire, to _response_. An answering flick of his gaze down to Sherlock’s mouth, an intake of breath, then back up to meet Sherlock’s stare with wide eyes and a parting of lips that could only be an invitation.

He imagined his courage for once not deserting him, allowing him to grasp John’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, to bend his head, gaze still locked with John’s, until his mouth hovered where he could feel John’s breath on his face. He imagined pausing there, and John swaying a little towards him, seeking. He imagined how his own voice would go low and deep from emotion and arousal – “All right?” And John would give a quick little twisted nod ( _Oh, god, yes_ ) and then Sherlock would kiss him.

The moment their mouths connected in his mind’s eye, a jolt of pure desire rushed through his body – his real body – and he was suddenly breathless there, where he lay on the sofa, breathless and rock hard. He didn’t think he’d actually moaned out loud (as he had in his mind, moaned into John’s willing, open mouth, _oh god_ ), but he froze on the sofa all the same and waited to see if John would react. He did not wish to call attention to his state, so he kept his hands steady beneath his chin and made no move to cover himself, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as his heart pounded and he waited for his breathing to calm.

John made no sign of noticing anything out of the ordinary. Thank God for his profound lack of observational skills.

As he settled down, he chided himself for the scale of his reaction. Hard and practically panting, from a single kiss. From a single, _imaginary_ kiss. In which the John he imagined responded with pleasure to a touch from Sherlock, and not with the stiff politeness he would expect, or worse, the appalling _kindness_ he so feared. With desire. It was breathtaking. It was _devastating_.

He rose abruptly, unable to stay still any longer. Without being so obvious as to adjust his trousers or cover his telltale bulge with his hands, Sherlock still managed to angle his body away from John’s line of sight (not that John was looking) and headed to the kitchen to spend a very long time making tea.

By the time the kettle had boiled, the signs of his arousal had abated. He added milk to John’s cup and carried it over to the table. John had adjusted the angle of the laptop while he was in the kitchen – when Sherlock would not see him actually move it – so that Sherlock could not see the screen without coming to stand directly behind John. _Wants to hide what’s on the screen. Doesn’t want me to know he wants to._ Obviously John’s attempt to conceal his intention was futile, but it was...endearing...that he made the attempt to be clever about it. Some things about John could still be counted on.

It was quite late when John published his post with his usual flourish. Was it about the case, or another private posting? Sherlock did not know the distinguishing tells in this case. He would have to actually go and look, which he found only slightly annoying. He was enjoying the slow unveiling of John’s thoughts. He looked forward to discovering more. _Not now, though._

Because now, he had to go and lay himself down in his bed in the darkness and listen to John’s body moving in the room upstairs, and return to the place in his thoughts where John Watson wanted him too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures a few things out, and takes what is, for him, an unbelievable risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Itsallfine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine) and  
> [SincerelyChaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos) deserve love and pats on the back for their work as beta and sounding boards and cheering section. I always come to a point where I need other people to talk to me about what I'm writing, so I really could not be doing this without them. Also, they're both terrific writers - go read their stuff. (When you're done with mine, of course.)

Shortly after the trip to Kent, John had to go away to Cornwall for a conference. It was only an overnight absence, but he picked up extra shifts at the surgery before and after his absence to make up for his missed time, so Sherlock didn’t see him for over a week.

He kept the texts going, though.

_Medical question: how much do fingernails bleed? SH_

_They don’t. They’re made of keratin. No blood vessels._

_What kind of idiot do you take me for? SH_

_Rephrase: How much do FINGERS bleed if fingernails are pulled out? SH_

_Ugh. Is this for a case?!_

_Will you answer if I say yes? SH_

_No. AND DON’T EXPERIMENT._

_Hard to find a willing subject, John. That’s why I asked you. SH_

_Ask the Internet._

_I like you better. SH_

_You seem to. Can’t think why._

Sherlock paused. What an odd thing for John to say. He knew his own worth as well as anyone, surely. _You’re brilliant, that’s why. SH_  Too much – _don’t send_. Next, he tried, _It’s a mystery to me too. SH_  – safer, but it wasn’t true. Sherlock could quote chapter and verse as to why he preferred John Watson to...pretty much everyone in the world. _Delete_. He needed something that would let John know he was special, without being unnecessarily effusive. He settled on:

_That’s because you’re an idiot. SH_

It didn’t matter what he said, really. He just wanted the texts to keep coming. It was a little like company.

***

While John was away, this:

**Doctor John H. Watson: Private Blog**

**I met Bill Murray while we were both in training, still in the UK. He was a nurse with my unit in Afghanistan. He was always such good value. And so...open. His upbringing was so different from mine and his attitudes were really liberal. It was a bit of a revelation. He had all sorts of friends that my dad would never have approved of. It seems silly now but at the time I'd never even had a friend who wasn't Christian (at least vaguely) or white. Or straight. That I knew of, anyway. He introduced me to a whole different world. And I was away from home and could make my own choices and not worry about what my father would say. I hadn't realised at the time what a big factor that was in my choices, but it really was.**

**Bill was always very touchy-feely with everyone, men and women. I'm a lot more reserved. I don't usually touch people on purpose, even casually, or make the first move sexually. I'll ask, yeah, but even if the answer is yes, I usually let the other person take that step. I can avoid a lot of awkwardness that way. I was the same way back then, but more so. I watched Bill with a sort of fascination, how he'd hug and pat and touch, and people liked it. And cuddle and snog, too, if it was that kind of vibe. Bill liked touching people. He touched me sometimes. I liked it. Everyone liked it. I didn’t think much about it. I just liked Bill. Liked him, that’s all.**

**Bill was incredibly successful with women. I guess I sort of took notes, because the next thing I knew I was pulling too. For the first time. And then rather a lot, for me. Bill still takes the mickey, about how ‘busy’ I was. I wasn’t, really, but compared to how I was when we first met...it was a big change.**

**Anyway, it felt good. Obviously the sex felt good, but also the touching. The...contact, I guess. I had never really had much of that before. My mum used to touch us a lot but after she died, no one. Not gently, anyway. So yeah, I enjoyed Bill’s – call it his lack of boundaries. And the contact with women.**

**Then one day I saw Bill kiss a man. I’m going to try to write through my reaction to that.**

**My ideas about gay men came from my father and the locker room at school. There’d be comments about being a ‘cocksucker’, and it was obvious that this was a humiliating thing, disgusting. Base. ‘Taking it up the arse’ was even worse. I knew these were the things men did with other men. I pictured them like animals. Pigs, maybe, or dogs. Rutting, thrusting, grunting. Sweaty and painful. Not erotic at all. Barely even human. That’s how it was talked about. I couldn’t imagine what kind of person would want to do those things. Someone depraved, it seemed like. I was glad I didn’t know anyone like that.**

**I never imagined men kissing. I had kissed quite a few girls by that time, and liked it a lot. It’s – well, hot, sometimes, but sometimes it’s just, I don’t know, sweet and lovely. I could just barely remember my dad kissing my mum. How can I say this? It’s something to do with the heart, even though it’s physical. It’s human.**

**I had never imagined that men would kiss each other like that. Seeing Bill do it, seeing the other bloke like it… It gave me a lot to think about. It wasn’t as if they were serious. It was just fond. Like they did it as a bit of a joke, or a dare, the way you do at parties when you’re twenty-one. But then having done it, they were warmer with each other. Just like I felt about any girl I’d kissed, whether I had any feelings for her or not: I did this nice thing with you, so I have these nice thoughts. When two men did it, they felt the same as I did.**

**Of course that’s obvious to me now. But at the time – it wasn’t obvious to me at all. And then it was, and a whole lot of things shifted for me. I remember I took a girl home that night. And I wondered, while I was kissing her and really enjoying it, was kissing a man the same? How was it the same? How was it different? It was the first time I’d ever thought about that. That kissing and sex between men might be something that real people do. Not depraved at all, but just...human. God, this isn’t easy. I’m so bloody English. But … that was the first time I thought it could be gentle. Loving.**

**And once I thought about it like that, I couldn’t think about gay men the way my father did ever again.**

***

The password to access the entry was _MaidstoneEast_. Sherlock was hardly surprised.

 _BillytheSkull, BarnesCase, MaidstoneEast_ –  John’s passwords were all things that Sherlock would recognise. They were references to conversations and cases that they’d had together. So far, so obvious.

But what Sherlock had been missing was the fact that this was _not a coincidence_ , not the simple result of John choosing whatever came to mind and making it his password. There was a reason.

Sherlock could always guess John’s passwords. John, of course, knew this, and (when they’d been flatmates) used to live with a sort of grudging acceptance that nothing of his was really private. But if John was deliberately choosing passwords that had to do with Sherlock, there was a message there. More than resignation to the inevitable. _An invitation_. John was writing these posts _for Sherlock_. He _wanted_ Sherlock to read them.

They were not just words that John had written, musings that had happened to be on his mind. They were thoughts that he specifically wanted to share with Sherlock, and had found that this was the only way he could.

Laying a trail, leaving the clues, and trusting in Sherlock’s nature to ensure that he would solve it.

Clever, clever John, struck dumb when he’d been asked to explain himself to Sherlock, had found a way to get the words out after all.

Now, Sherlock supposed, it was his turn.

***

He sat in his chair by the hearth and prepared himself before he began. Then he spoke.

“John, there are a few things I think we need to discuss.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been reading your blog. The private posts.”

A quizzical frown, entirely unconvincing. “Those were password-protected.”

“Yes. But you meant me to guess them, didn’t you.”

“Yes, all right. I did.”

“Why?”

“You haven’t worked it out yet? Go on, you’re the detective. You tell me.”

Oh, he was going to make this difficult. _Let’s play deductions._ “You started writing them after the night when I asked you to move back to Baker Street and you said no. You wanted to say yes, you said so, and you looked like you meant it, but you said no all the same, and you left without telling me why.” Sherlock paced the flat as his ruminations gathered speed. “That’s when you posted the first private post, about Harry.”

“Not just about Harry.”

“No. _No._ That’s right, not just about Harry, about _you_. About you and your father, and wanting to...what? Not rock the boat. Path of least resistance.”

“More or less. So..?”

“So there are some things it’s better not to talk about.”

“Or some things I’ve learned not to talk about.”

Sherlock stopped short at that, and steepled his fingers under his chin where he stood, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “All right.” He put that idea aside, to hold it for later. _Some things he’s learned not to talk about._

“And then you came on the Barnes case, and you wrote your next post about becoming a doctor and going to war.”

“Right. Why did I do that?”

“Because of...because of _being on the edges_ , you said. Working well in a crisis. Well, you do. You thought there was something wrong with you. You thought you might be a sociopath. Like me.”

“Hah, yes. Just like you.”

At the wryness of his tone, Sherlock cut his eyes over to John, but John’s expression was bland and hard to read. Sherlock carried on.

“You alluded briefly to your state of mind when we first met.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his gaze darting back and forth as he tried to sort the information into some kind of sense. “You wanted me to know...what? That you contemplated suicide upon your return? That’s hardly a revelation, you know, with the stress and the PTSD and the feelings of alienation and so on, the statistics on returned servicemen and women are –”

“Sherlock.” John was frowning at him.

 _Ah, yes. Not good. Of course._ Best to carry straight on. “You wanted me to know that… that there are advantages to being good in a crisis, but disadvantages too.”

“Yes. And what happens when you remove the crisis…?”

“You fall apart, unless…”

“Unless I can find another crisis, right.” John was watching him. There was something more.

He rested his chin on his fingers and spoke slowly, the truth of the words becoming plain only as he uttered them. “You wanted me to know that you still think you are _damaged_. That you consider yourself deficient because of this trait.” John’s slow blink indicated assent. “That’s preposterous, John. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re brilliant, that’s all, so you don’t thrive in an excess of dullness. It’s not a flaw.”

John had smiled a little at ‘brilliant’ but said nothing in response. _He does think it’s a flaw, and a dangerous one. To be avoided._ _To be...discouraged._ Sherlock had the same flaw. If John thought it was a dangerous trait in John Watson, he perhaps had the same opinion of the same trait in Sherlock Holmes. _Dangerous._

But John _liked_ danger. Ah, but John did not _want_ to like danger. Sherlock kept that thought aside as well, to consider later, and carried on.

“Your last post was after the trip to Maidstone.”

Here John pursed his lips to hide a smile, jerked a nod.

“You flirted with Howell. You did, and you knew it...caught my attention. You changed the subject quite deftly on the train.”

“Cheers. So..?”

“And then your post was about your friend from training and how he taught you how to...how to flirt. How to be sexually successful.”

“You sure make it sound exciting. But yes.”

“And how you learned not to...to be afraid of…” It was hard to say.

“Gay men, yes.”

“You think it’s normal.”

“Of course.”

“It’s fine with you.”

“Yes. I’ve always told you that.”

He had. This was not new information. There had to be something else. “Is that all?”

“All?”

“It’s fine?”

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock. What more do you want me to say?”

 _John doesn’t mind that I am – that I like – He knows I’m –_ Sherlock hated labeling himself. But in this instance he could at least _think_ it. _He knows I’m gay and he doesn’t mind._ Which was good, of course. But did he know what Sherlock wanted? That Sherlock wanted _John?_

“You mean you’re fine with – with what… with who I am.”

Here John smiled, warmly. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

“But are you fine with…?” Sherlock stopped.

“With what?” John looked confused, and a little alarmed. “Sherlock, with _what_?”

 _Hell._ Sherlock practically _howled_ in frustration. He should have known he could only take this so far. He could only deal with the data he actually had, after all. Synthesis was possible, but not _new data_. Only the real John could tell him anything new about John’s thoughts.

This was not a conversation he could usefully expect to have in his Mind Palace.

He waved a hand, and John vanished.

This could not continue. Something had to give eventually. Either the data would present itself, or Sherlock would have to take a real risk.

***

The next morning saw Sherlock down at NSY, berating Lestrade’s team and completely redirecting their investigation towards a business owned in partnership by their prime suspect, for heaven’s sake, which they’d completely failed to take into account. They’d botch the search of the premises, too, unless he was there, and he told them so, but there was nothing more he could do until they brought the suspect in. He threw up his hands in exasperation, and went home.

He took in the straightened door knocker with weary resignation.

“I hope you brought breakfast,” he called loudly, setting his foot on the stairs.

“Hello to you as well, brother dear.” Mycroft was sitting in John’s chair. Sherlock bit back his annoyance at that, because it was no less irritating when he sat anywhere else. Also, he’d brought chocolate croissants, had even set them on a plate on the table. Sherlock decided to tolerate him.

“I suppose you want tea.”

“Thank you, yes.”

Sherlock even made it without complaint.

They sipped their tea in a silence that was less strained than it used to be, if not precisely _companionable_. Mycroft nibbled his croissant fastidiously, taking tiny bites and catching every crumb in his serviette. Sherlock, on the other hand, took an enormous bite, scattering bits of pastry everywhere and relishing the look of distaste Mycroft didn’t bother to conceal.

“Delicious,” Sherlock mumbled around his mouthful. He swallowed. To business. “Well? Did you want something?”

“Just checking in on my little brother. Surely I don’t need a reason?”

“A social call?” Sceptical.

“Just so.” Mycroft smiled serenely.

“How very kind of you.”

“Not at all.” Mycroft could make any pleasantry sound offensive. “Any cases on at the moment?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why? Have you got something for me? I note you’ve managed to extricate yourself from all the recent...unpleasantness. With Mary. Almost completely untarnished, it would seem.”

Mycroft tilted his chin. “Quite.” He sipped his tea. “John Watson acquitted himself creditably during the whole affair. No doubt he’s made his role plain to you.”

Sherlock took another croissant and said nothing. He should not have brought it up.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I _see_.”

“Mind your own business.” Little chance of that.

“How is John? I admit, I’d rather assumed he’d be moving back here after...an appropriate time had passed. Have you discussed it with him?”

“Of course.”

“And he’s still not here.” _Perceptive as ever, Mycroft._ “Any idea why?”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but it was useless to dissemble. “No.”

“And what else have the two of you failed to discuss?”

He closed his eyes and cursed his own weakness. It was such a relief to be talking. “Practically everything.”

Ah.” Mycroft regarded him for a long while. “Well. He’s never been a man of words, our Doctor Watson.” A short pause. “He gives so much more credence to... action.”

Sherlock blinked and looked away, placing his shredded croissant back on the plate. He said nothing.

After a time, Mycroft sighed. “I have no specific advice for you, brother, beyond that which I have been offering for years, and which you persist in blithely disregarding, particularly with respect to Doctor Watson. His little motivations and conflicts are as irrational and inconsequential as those of any other – “ his lip curled in distaste – “... _ordinary person_ , so I’m not surprised you find them hard to fathom. If you can’t discuss it with him, perhaps it would be helpful to...bypass speech.”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “Bypass speech to get him back into Baker Street? What, go and pack his things myself? Terminate his rental agreement behind his back, rent it out from under him?”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. “It could be arranged…”

Sherlock glared. “If it were up to you, you’d arrange for the whole building to be sold. Or condemned.” He considered. “That wasn’t a request.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Just as you say. In any case, I’m inclined to think getting him back into the flat is rather a subsidiary concern for you at the moment.” He swallowed the last of his tea. “Since you’re doing _attachments_ nowadays.”

“What are you implying, Mycroft?”

“Nothing of any import, brother. Just thinking aloud.” He pulled out his watch to check the time before tucking it back in his pocket.

“Well, if that’s as helpful as you’re going to be, then I propose a permanent subject change.”

“No need. I must be off. Good day, brother dear. I am sure you’ll find a way to communicate with your army doctor and make your...preferences known.”

***

After Mycroft left, Sherlock sat for a time and toyed with his unfinished croissant, getting the better of his irritation.

Mycroft, of course, could already see the solution. Could see the solution and predict a minimum of seven different possible outcomes, and plot contingencies for each of those, up to and including an inevitable endgame that was also planned in every detail. _Almost_ inevitable.

Mycroft did not have a...goldfish of his own, though, even for all his scheming. That, and the _almost_ were what kept Sherlock from giving in and asking for his advice. Also, Mycroft always had an ulterior motive, and Sherlock could not be sure that Mycroft’s objectives with respect to Sherlock (and John) were the same as Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s goals were coalescing now. He had attempted to fit himself into John’s life, and accept whatever crumbs John was willing to toss his way, and John had let him, not knowing that’s what he was doing. John had not known Sherlock wanted anything more. He still didn’t know, because Sherlock hadn’t told him.

He licked some chocolate off his fingers and laughed mirthlessly at himself. He could picture several iterations of how that conversation would go, without even needing to enter his Mind Palace:

“John, I am desirous of expanding your role in my life to romantic cohabitation…” _No._

“Given certain realisations about the nature of my sentiment with regards to your person…” _No._

“John, in addition to wanting you as a flatmate, friend and crime-solving sidekick - “

“ - Partner...”

“ - Partner, yes. In addition to all that, I also wish to kiss you and perhaps have sexual intercourse...” _God, no._

“After you move back into the flat, would you be amenable to including oral and manual sexual stimulation in our repertoire of interactions?”

“Oral and manual…?”

“And occasional sodomy, if you like.” _Good lord._ “In an affectionate way, of course.” _Not helpful._

Why couldn’t he find the right _words_? He wanted everything from John Watson, but every sentence he managed to conceive on the subject was stilted and contrived, and conveyed none of what he actually felt. It seemed John wasn’t the only person who – how had Mycroft put it? _Had never been a man of words._

Mycroft’s advice to bypass speech would be a wonderful idea indeed, but what did he intend for Sherlock to do, apart from dragging John bodily out of his horrible (yes _, horrible_ ) little flat and confining him to Baker Street until he agreed to stay?

Anyway, getting him back to Baker Street was only - what was it? _A subsidiary concern._ Subsidiary to what? Everything else. Everything else he wanted from John. _With_ John.

Bypass speech in order to communicate that what he wanted was to touch John, and kiss him, and in all ways be with him, and have him never leave, and be Sherlock’s again.

Now that he thought of it that way, it was obvious what kind of ‘action’ was called for, if words were going to elude him, if John was going to remain mute on the subject.

Sherlock would have to touch John, _actually_ touch him, not just in his mind, but for real, and in a way that John could not misunderstand. He rose from his chair, brushing away the crumbs of his shredded croissant, and made his resolution.

If he was unable to tell John what he wanted, he would have to show him, _this is how I want to be with you_. To ask, without words, if it could possibly be what he wanted, too. With no idea how his...question...would be received.

To arrive on John’s skin with no assurances of a welcome there.

It felt like the most dangerous thing he had ever done.

***

Sherlock did not have to stew for long. John returned from Cornwall and came straight to Baker Street from the station, hauling his overnight bag up the stairs and calling out a greeting as the door slammed shut behind him.

His heart rose at John’s unwontedly rowdy entry, and they stood for a moment, Sherlock by the window, John in the doorway, and grinned at each other. John’s face registered pleased surprise as Sherlock took several steps across the room towards him. Sherlock hadn’t even realised he was moving.

When he did realise, he stopped. He had practised this, he had visualised, but now, in the moment, crossing the room and taking John Watson’s mouth in a kiss he hadn’t asked for was utterly beyond him.

“John.” He had to touch him. It had to be today.

“Hey. Just stopping by…”

“You came straight here from the station. You were sitting next to a woman who has cats. The train was delayed by...an hour and a half. You didn’t eat. You’re tired, you want to shower and change.”

“Spot on.” John grinned.

“And yet you came straight here.” He’d said that already, but the warmth it set to spiraling in his chest was compelling.

“Yeah, well. Just wanted to say hi.” He unzipped his bag. “I got you this.”

‘This’ was, of all the ludicrous things, a plush Cornish Pasty with a face and a pirate hat. It was the most absurd, useless item Sherlock could possibly imagine. _John had brought it for him as a present._ He could not contain his grin. “I definitely don’t already have one.” _Thank you_.

“That’s a relief.” John’s smile was pleased. “I saw the pirate hat and I knew it was meant for you.”

They smiled at each other some more. After a moment, Sherlock shook himself. “Eat here. Stay. I actually have food in, Mrs. Hudson brought me a lasagna for the freezer. You can shower at least, while I heat it up. You can stay over, head home in the morning.”

John looked genuinely regretful. “I’d love to. I’m all out of clean shirts, though, not to mention pants, and I’ve got work tomorrow.” He made a face and seemed to be looking for a way around these obstacles, but in the end he shook his head. “I will take you up on the shower and the dinner, though, before I hit the road.”

“Of course.” Sherlock held his silly stuffed toy in both hands. John had often travelled, even in the old days, but he had never brought him a present before. They had never, on the whole, given gifts, except at Christmas. But this time, John had been away, and thinking of Sherlock. He held the proof in both hands.

“John.” It was stupid to think a toy could give him courage. He held it tightly as he crossed to the sofa, but then resolutely put it down on a cushion beside him. “Could you come here for a moment?”

John blinked. “Okay…” He sat himself down on the other end of the sofa, half leaning on the arm, his knees turned toward Sherlock.

Sherlock surreptitiously scooted closer. “John, I…There’s something I want to –” The words were no more cooperative today than they’d been when he was rehearsing. That was why he had abandoned _talking_ as a sensible course of action.

His hands were restless, palms rubbing at his thighs of their own volition, fingers beating an erratic tattoo on his knees before the rubbing recommenced. At last, after one last flex, one last breath, he turned towards John, so that their knees were almost touching, and reached out for his hand.

John let him take it.

It was not a handshake. John’s fingers rested along Sherlock’s palm, with Sherlock’s other hand covering it. There was no way to describe what was happening except by saying that Sherlock was holding John’s hand. Sherlock could not look at John’s face, he could not see his reaction, but he held John’s hand between both of his, and it rested there.

John’s fingers were small, his wrists were narrow. There were calluses on his palm and fine hairs on his wrist, under the pad of Sherlock’s thumb. There was a tremor as they breathed – was it just from breathing? It created a movement of skin on skin that was almost undetectable. Almost.

 _Sherlock was touching John._ His world had shrunk to the precise area where their bodies were in contact, contact that had no purpose other than touching. There was no excuse for this _and John was allowing it to happen_.

Sherlock was holding John’s hand. And John – after a shocked moment where his fingers had merely lain across Sherlock’s palm – was gripping tightly, the knuckles straining slightly under Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock screwed up his nerve and looked at John’s face. John’s eyes were closed and he wore a small smile and an expression of – Sherlock wasn’t sure, but the word that presented itself was relief.

John opened his eyes then, and met Sherlock’s gaze without flinching. After a moment, he took a breath as if to speak...

...just as the doorbell rang.

Sherlock winced. He heard Mrs. Hudson in the hall, and another voice, male, at the door, sounding urgent. Not a client. Possibly Lestrade. There would be other people in the flat very shortly, and his time with John would be over, his chance past.

There were footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock loosened his hold on John’s hand, not wanting him to feel trapped, but John’s hand stayed where it was. The realisation that John would allow them to be seen like this – allow _himself_ to be seen like this – made Sherlock’s heart beat even faster. _John did not want to hide._

Sherlock, though, found he was not ready to share this. He took the hand he held and carefully placed it back in John’s lap, giving a small, twisted smile.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson bustled through the door, followed closely by – yes – Lestrade. He had made the arrest on Sherlock’s advice from earlier in the week and now needed him to help search an office...Sherlock barely listened to the details.

He did not want to go. He tried sneering. “Surely searching an office is not beyond the capabilities of London’s finest? Even the sorry excuses for experts you have the misfortune to oversee?”

Greg sputtered in fury. “You _asked_ to come. You said there’d be – “

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock cut him off. He did not see an easy way out of this.

Surprisingly, John piped up. “Go ahead,” he said.

“John? I –” This was the work, and he could not have cared less about it. It was important for John to know that.

He smiled. He did not seem put out at all. He seemed...fond. And, oddly, more relaxed than Sherlock had seen him in a long time. “It's all right. Really. Go. I could really use that shower, and they obviously need you. It's part of a case. It’s fine. Go.”

“I don't want to go,” Sherlock hissed. “I want –" He stopped himself. He might, now, be able to say some of this to John, but it was not for anyone else to hear.

“It's fine,” John repeated, and seemed to mean it. “We can do this another time.”

This? Sherlock wondered what John meant by this, but he did not ask, only nodded slowly. “All right. Another time. Soon.”

John nodded. “Soon.”

Lestrade turned to head back down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen. For a moment, they were alone again.

Daring greatly, Sherlock took John's hand again and gave it a squeeze. There was a flicker of a smile on John’s face as he returned the pressure.

On his way down the stairs, Sherlock allowed the triumphant smile to blossom on his face. No one could see him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I _know_ , all right? But if they got there _fast_ , it wouldn't be the same 'there'.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Find your own [Cornish Pasty Toy](http://www.thecornishstore.com/shopp2011792861) here.  
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com)  
> Comments are love.  
> You know what else is love? Khorazir made [this beautiful drawing](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/image/133690414153) inspired by this chapter, and that feels like love to me. Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock entered the flat and looked at the sofa where they’d sat, where he’d taken John’s hand. Nothing had been promised, nothing had even been said, but Sherlock had taken John’s hand, and John had allowed it, and had gripped Sherlock’s hand, hard, in return. It _felt_ like a promise.
> 
> It _was_ a promise. _No more hiding_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [itsallfine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine)  
> [cakepopsforeveryone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/pseuds/cakepopsforeveryone)  
>  and [Sincerelychaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos/works) are my insanely helpful betas, and I shudder when I think of what this fic would look like without them.

John was not in the flat when Sherlock returned from searching the office (where, yes, there’d been the false wall, and yes, the crucial evidence, and no, the idiots at the Met would not have figured it out if Sherlock hadn’t been there). Sherlock had not expected him to be there. He’d suggested as much, anyway, and then there’d been a text.

_Off now. Some things to do. Talk soon. JHW_

John rarely signed his texts. But they’d touched, now. Perhaps this was intimacy.

Sherlock entered the flat and looked at the sofa where they’d sat, where he’d taken John’s hand. Nothing had been promised, nothing had even been said, but Sherlock had taken John’s hand, and John had allowed it, and had gripped Sherlock’s hand, hard, in return. It _felt_ like a promise.

He picked up his silly toy from where it sat on its cushion, smiling maniacally, and carried it to his bedroom.

***

There were no more texts the next morning, and no visit that evening.

There was, instead, something infinitely more staggering.

Beginning in the afternoon, there was a rapid–fire series of private posts that kept Sherlock bent over his laptop, madly refreshing the page, neglecting to eat or sleep for as long as the posts kept appearing.

They went on all evening.

It was obvious from the beginning that these posts, _these_ posts, were different. Their touch _had_ been a promise. The promise was: _no more hiding_.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**There are just a few more things I need to write about. This private blog has been better than I could have hoped. I’ve been able to express the things I find it hard to say, but also the things I didn’t even know I felt before I tried to write it all down. But there are bigger things coming now, and I’m ready to say them, and take what comes. I’m just going to write now, and get it all down. I won’t stop, I won’t edit. Do it, Watson.**

***

The next post appeared within minutes. Sherlock frowned as he read it. For the first time since he’d started reading John’s private posts, he actually felt a twinge of guilt. As if he were seeing something too personal.

Odd, that, considering some of the topics John had already touched on in his posts. There were things in here that he and John _did not talk about_.

It was impossible to tear his eyes away.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**First of all, I knew the baby wasn't mine as soon as I knew there was a baby. Mary and I were careful whenever we did anything. Well. I was careful. Mary teased me about it, about playing it safe. She goaded me, always laughing of course, always just in fun, and tried to get me to forget about it. I never did. I'm a doctor, it’s not like I don't know how babies are made. Once I knew she was pregnant, I finally understood why she’d been so keen for me to take some chances.**

**(Also since I'm being honest, I knew because we'd hardly done anything for ages. For people who were supposed to be in love we really didn’t have much sex.)**

**I guess it's strange that I wasn't angry. To find out on my wedding day that my wife was unfaithful should have been a bigger deal. I just wanted that life so badly. I'd made up my mind to want it. By that time I was pretty used to the idea that I wasn't going to be happy.**

**I wasn't going to leave her, I wasn't going to blame her... I just felt lucky she was willing to have me, when she knew how damaged I was. Am.**

**She did know. She knew a hell of a lot more than I realised at the time, but that part I did realise. She knew what she was getting. I guess I just didn’t analyse it too much, why she said yes, why someone like her would choose someone like me.**

**I still don’t know why anyone would.**

***

Sherlock re–read the last line. Then the whole entry. Then the last line again. John was sending him a message, and it was important that he understand exactly what it was.

At the moment, he had no idea.

_Refresh._

Nothing.

For something to do, he left his laptop open on the table in the sitting room and went to make a cup of tea. He focused on the process, the _clunk_ of the mug on the worktop, the papery feel of the teabag as he pulled it from the box. The burble of boiling water and the slight hiss as it filled the mug and the way the bag swirled as the cup filled. Steam. Tea was reliable.

He returned to his seat at the table and looked at the laptop again. He thought, precisely, _John did not love Mary_. He kept his thoughts conscious, articulate, using only the surface of his mind. He did not want deductions. _John married Mary. John did not love Mary. Even before he knew what she was, he did not love her. And he married her._

He couldn’t decide whether he was delighted or horrified. John was supposed to be a romantic. Marrying someone you didn’t love was decidedly not romantic. On the other hand, if he didn’t love Mary, then maybe he loved Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t even bother the chide himself for the utter lack of rationality in _that_ thought.

It had been just over half an hour. _Refresh_.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**Keep going.**

**When I was a kid and doing what my father expected of me, I assumed I would find a nice woman and get married and settle down. I still thought that when I was in training. When I was pulling regularly and Bill was teasing me about being a ladies’ man, I still thought that.**

**Once I was deployed, the lads would talk about home and what their plans were for when they got back. That’s what we’d talk about, finding someone and having a regular life. Of course they weren’t all that delicate about what they were looking for – it could get pretty crude – but that was pretty much a smokescreen for how badly they wanted it. A regular life.**

**I had those conversations too. I figured if I kept at it, eventually I’d get used to the idea. As it was, I couldn’t really feel it, that desire for an ordinary life, it didn’t sit right with me, but then my whole perspective was skewed because of where I was. I figured I’d see it differently when I got home. I’d see it properly.**

**I waited a long time for that to happen.**

***

Sherlock paced the flat as he processed. His certainties about John were breaking apart.

John had always wanted that life, hadn’t he? For as long as Sherlock had known him. He would smile at pretty women and let them know he was available, and he would date them, and presumably he would sleep with them, and go on trips with them, and invite them round the flat at Christmas. Eventually he married one.

Sherlock had not known John when he was in Afghanistan, though, or before. And now he seemed to be suggesting something very different.

 _New fact:_ John had not begun by wanting an ordinary life with an ordinary woman. Quite the opposite - he’d wanted to be on his edges, where he could be most useful. By last summer, though, he’d been prepared to compromise nothing less than love, fidelity and happiness for the sake of that precise life.

The first tendrils of apprehension began to bloom behind his solar plexus as he considered what else he was about to discover about John Watson.

The next post did not appear for over an hour. The day was drawing to a close, and outside the workday had come to an end. Baker Street did not get a great deal of foot traffic, as a rule, but this was the time of day when there was a little more bustle down on the pavement. Sherlock drew up to the window and stood there a long while, watching the passers-by, willing himself into stillness.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**I was determined to stay away from any kind of attachment when I was still in Afghanistan. I never considered it an option. What I was doing over there was hard and dangerous and bloody and disgusting and absolutely brutal. It’s hard to explain. No matter what I was doing, saving lives or anything else, the things I had to do with my hands, with my bare hands...I couldn’t imagine touching someone I cared about with those hands.**

**I shut all that down and got on with it. I’d worry about the other stuff when I got home. And I gravitated towards people who had the same attitude. If I ever thought about it, I figured it was a good way of protecting myself.**

**James**

**God, it’s hard to even type his name. Get on with it, Watson.**

**Write.**

**This is stupid, I can’t just sit here. Go.**

**James was the best commanding officer I could ever have asked for. I was trying to be single-minded in the execution of my duty, but I was nothing next to him. I never saw him anything except one hundred percent focused on doing his duty, staying calm, and keeping us safe as much as possible. He came across as cold and aloof and some of the troops made fun of him for being so rigid. But his only motivation, ever, was to look after us. That’s all he ever cared about.**

**I had never seen that kind of caring before. _Caring._ It’s a soft kind of word, but his caring wasn’t soft. It was relentless. It made me want to work, to _serve_ , til I dropped if I had to, to try and live up to him. I’d never admired anyone like that before. I felt it so strongly. I thought that was all it was.**

**Then came this one day, this one bloody day. The casualties were pouring in and I’d been working non-stop for twelve or thirteen hours, but I was ready to keep going. I was on autopilot, just cutting and clamping and…I felt like a machine.**

**Anyway, I finished the stitches I was working on, just cut the thread and turned away, ready to scrub again and move on. But when I finished scrubbing, I turned to look for the next stretcher, and there wasn’t one. I was actually finished.**

**James was right there, right in my way. He looked at me for a minute and then he just said, “Good work, Watson.” And he put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.**

**I was exhausted by then, physically and emotionally, completely depleted. But that had nothing to do with how I reacted when he touched me.**

**He must have seen it on my face, I had no energy to be anything but completely transparent. He dropped his hand pretty damn fast and backed away. He was in command, he didn’t have to make excuses, there were a hundred things that needed his attention right then, so he was gone the next second.**

**It sounds stupid but I could still feel where his hand had been. There wasn’t any room for me to doubt what I was feeling. I was too drained to lie to myself.**

***

Sherlock’s hand was gripping his own shoulder. He would relax his hold, perhaps stroke his upper arm for a moment, then squeeze again. He did it several times before he realised he was doing it.

James had dared to touch John when John was...was _on the edges_. James had joined him there, and let him know he wasn’t alone.

Sherlock had never done that. Sherlock brought John to the edges and left him there.

He kept his hand on his shoulder and walked around the sitting room.

“I’m afraid of where this is going, John.”

“Afraid? You?” John appeared at the kitchen door, giving an incredulous smile.

Sherlock gave a short, humourless laugh. “Yes, me.”

“What are you afraid of, specifically?”

“I don’t know what you’re going to say next. The real you, I mean, over at that dreadful flat, typing. I don’t know what’s coming. It sounds like...It sounds like you and James were…”

“It does sound like that. Well? What if we were?”

“I’ve been keeping my distance because I thought you didn’t want a man. That you wouldn’t want my...attentions. Because I’m a man.”

“Then this must be good news.” John smiled encouragingly.

“Yes…”

“But?”

“But you’ve been keeping your distance too.” Sherlock snorted at the understatement. _He got married_.

“So?”

“And you didn’t from James. He touched you.”

“Sure looks that way.”

“I never touched you.”

“Not in that way, no.”

“So I’m afraid. If it’s not that you can’t love men, it might just be that you can’t love me.” He pursed his lips to still their tremor, keeping up appearances alone in his flat. “You wouldn’t be the only one.”

John’s voice was unusually gentle. “You’ll just have to keep reading.”

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**James put his hands on me again, later. I wanted him to. We didn’t talk about it at first, we just looked for opportunities. And every time it happened, there was this feeling of relief, to have the contact again, to have it with someone who could be under no illusions as to what my hands had done.**

**It was that relief, that rest, the word I keep coming up with is respite… I was looking for that when**

**I was looking for that the first time I kissed him.**

**I found it. God, it was**

**Nothing much else...happened. Over there. The way things are when you’re deployed, there isn’t much opportunity for that sort of thing. Furtive touches, fleeting kisses. Very rarely anything more. He never had his mind off his work, even when we**

**and he was always so cautious, so adamant that we mustn’t get caught.**

**I didn’t worry as much as he did. It was reckless of me not to, but I was just so amazed he felt the same way about me as I felt about him. Someone I admired so much. He’d seen me up to the elbows in someone else’s abdominal cavity as well as during combat. He knew what I was capable of, in every sense, and he wanted me anyway. That was extraordinary. I kind of wanted everyone to know.**

**Obviously we couldn’t let anyone find out. There would have been pretty serious consequences, it wasn’t just being shy or being closeted (though I know that came into it, for him). So we always had to be careful. Secretive. I didn’t like it, but that was the reality.**

**I used to imagine being back in the world with him, though, where we wouldn’t have to hide. He wouldn’t have to be afraid, then. I used to tell him about the things we’d do together, back in London.**

**It was, finally, a life I could picture. It made so much more sense to me than the fantasy I’d been trying to go along with. Something worth wanting back at home.**

***

This entry, too, had taken a long time to appear. It was the silences, Sherlock realised. Every time there was a line that didn’t end properly, a sentence that didn’t get written completely, that was a silence, and a long pause. Something unsaid, or hard to say.

_I was looking for that when_

_God, it was_

_...even when we_

Hard to read as well, though any conceivable endings to those sentences would surely be at least as bad as the ones Sherlock imagined.

It was dark now. He could picture John typing, the way he did, making his faces, hunting for the keys. In the dark, typing and stopping, where the sentences were left hanging. He would be taking deep breaths, the way he did in the grips of any strong emotion. Would he have risen to turn on a lamp? Or was he sitting in near-darkness, as Sherlock was, with only the lights from the streetlamps filtering in through the window?

Perhaps John had stopped to eat something. This sea of new data was more compelling than any case, so Sherlock had no plans to eat, but John would get hungry.

John would get tired, too. It wasn’t very late, but all these confessions were sure to take their toll. The next entry took so long that Sherlock began to wonder if John had gone to sleep. He even began to consider if he should go to sleep, but with his mind awhirl with new data, it was unlikely that he would be able to.

The next post appeared on his screen. With a great deal of trepidation, he opened it.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**When I got shot, the next step seemed obvious to everyone I spoke to. The correct choice for an invalid army doctor was always to adjust as seamlessly as possible to civilian life. Go home – be grateful to be able to go home – and get on with your life.**

**Bill teased me about meeting a woman as quickly as possible – he saw how successful I was with women before we shipped out – and that’s what he did, got married, had a baby. He was happy. Find someone, someone nice, who had no inkling of what it was like over there, who had nothing to do with that life. That was everyone’s best advice.**

**I’d already found someone, though. Someone who knew exactly what it was like over there. Someone I admired and respected and**

**this is hard**

**someone I loved. So fucking much. In a way I’d never even imagined could be possible.**

**By the time I realised what I felt, it was so life-changing that the least astonishing part was that it was for a man. That part never really worried me. Anyway, by that time he wasn’t just a man – he was this beautiful, honourable _hero_ to me, kind and distant and brave. Who knew me, I thought, and accepted me. How could I not be in love with him?**

***

Sherlock stared and stared at that last line, cast adrift. Abruptly, he heaved himself out of his chair and began to pace the flat.

John was _in love_. John was in love _with a man_. John was in love with a man _who was not Sherlock_.

 _Had been_ , he corrected himself, before the tears could do more than prickle at his eyes. _Had been_ in love. He didn’t know how it had ended, but he knew that it had ended. He bore down hard on his feelings of jealousy for this other man who had captured John’s heart.

Because something had gone wrong, hadn’t it, and both John and James had ended up scarred and alone.

It was an uncomfortable realisation, that this was the outcome he preferred.

His pacing brought him into the kitchen. He touched things. Picked up a mug. Set in down in exactly the same place. Turned the teapot so its handle was perpendicular to the edge of the worktop. Turned it back. Gathered up the dirty utensils and laid them side by side.

He needed to touch things. Real things, solid things. Not ephemeral blog posts that appeared in the night and rattled all of his foundations without giving him anything to hold on to. Such a tenuous link to John, whose real body he wanted, solid, under his hands.

He whispered, “Say these things to me.” John was still there, listening. “Let me hear your voice and see your face and feel your breath. I don’t want it from a screen.”

John sighed. “I wanted to. I think - I think I would have, if…”

“If?”

“If I’d ever thought, even for one second, that you wanted to know.”

And if John could say that - if the John in his mind could say that - it was because Sherlock already knew it to be true.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**We were injured around the same time. I was delirious in a Maiwand field hospital when his training operation went so spectacularly wrong. His injuries were less serious than mine, at least in terms of recovery time, but of course the psychological toll of having lost all his troops – kids, all of them, it would have broken his heart – and then being blamed for it…I can’t even imagine what that would have done to him.**

**Actually, I know exactly what that did to him.**

**We didn’t get to see each other in hospital at all. He was able to go home much sooner than I was. My recovery was pretty intense. I didn’t have too much time or energy for email, so once I’d made sure he’d be ok, we didn’t really communicate.**

**It was murder to be going home, I was absolutely sick about it. I was losing everything I thought made me useful… but in a weird way, it helped to think that the same thing, and worse, had happened to him. That sounds wrong. Obviously I was gutted for what he was going through. I just figured we might be able to make it bearable for each other.**

**When I was ready to be shipped back to England I wrote to him. I told him I was coming home, and we could get started on all the things we’d talked about. I told him how I felt about him. I told him I’d look after him. I told him – a lot more than he wanted to hear, as it turned out.**

**His answer came in a long email. He told me that men in the stress of deployment behave in ways they wouldn’t do at home. He told me he was a different person now, and I wouldn’t want to be with him anyway. He told me we’d both be better off if we tried for a ‘normal’ life (that’s what he said, that was his word, _normal_ ) instead of the fantasies I’d thought up. No, we were not going to live together. No, he didn’t think I should visit. He told me the veterans’ flats were not too bad. He wished me luck. He asked me not to contact him again.**

**I didn’t have a limp until after he’d pulled the rug out from under me. Or a love affair with my service revolver, either.**

***

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson’s sink made a long, drawn-out gurgling sound as it drained. It was late for her to still be finishing the dishes, so she must have dozed off in front of the television again. Sherlock listened for the creaks of the back door opening, the thud of the bin lids outside, the clunk as the door closed behind her on her way back into her flat. She’d be going to bed shortly.

Upstairs, Sherlock thought about the bristly, angry John from all those years ago. That appalling limp. The obvious damage to his whole person. As scratched and battered as his sister’s cast–off phone, which he’d handed Sherlock so freely at that first meeting.

Sherlock, fascinated, had set himself to cure John’s limp. He remembered congratulating himself so smugly for finding the cause of John’s malaise and removing it so adeptly.

Now it turned out that the limp was caused, not by John missing the battlefield, but by John missing the man he loved.

_And being with Sherlock had cured it._

And of course now it was obvious. John had left the cane behind at the restaurant before anything exciting had happened. Sherlock had fixed his limp. Not Sherlock’s lifestyle, but Sherlock himself.

And why, so many years and so much wasted time later, should that realisation set a small burst of joy to blossoming inside his ribcage?

The next entry took a very, very long time to appear. Sherlock rattled around in the kitchen,  and rearranged the dishes on the worktop. He set his open laptop on the table. After a short while, the dirty dishes began to feel oppressive to him and he swept out, grabbing the laptop on the way by.

Breakfast table. Easy chair. Top of the stairs. Sherlock couldn’t find a place to sit.

Eventually, he settled on the sofa, stretched out of his back, the laptop propped on a cushion on his stomach. It was past midnight, but Sherlock was in no danger of falling asleep. His nervousness began to give way to anticipation.

He thought he could feel John getting closer and closer to what he really wanted to say - or rather, to what Sherlock really wanted to know.

 _You don’t know what he’s going to say,_ he reminded himself. _If this whole exercise has shown you nothing else, you should at least realise that you can’t have any idea what is coming._ It could still be devastating.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**Eventually I started a blog, at my therapist’s insistence, where I documented the endless days of _nothing happening at all_ for nobody to read. Every day I looked at my gun and every day I decided again not to end things.**

**After a while it was more a matter of principle, not because I could actually remember why killing myself was a bad idea. I figured one day that wouldn’t be enough anymore and that’s when I’d do it.**

**Most days I went for a walk instead because that was what ‘normal’ people do, and I’d been told to try to be normal. I couldn’t imagine anything worse, but I couldn’t imagine anything _else_ , either.**

**That’s the man I was when I met Sherlock Holmes, and meeting him was like, I don’t know, the sun coming back after an eclipse. Or some sort of supernova, exploding my dark little world. He was mad, charming, devastatingly beautiful. Completely untouchable. And all of a sudden there was a life for me, something so spectacularly _not normal_ that I thought I might be dreaming.**

**Sherlock didn’t want me. Or, well, no, he did. He made me laugh and cured my limp and moved me into his flat and dragged me all over London solving crimes so he did want me, he just didn’t want that.**

**Eventually I stopped caring. I tried dating for a while, but my heart was never in it. I was happier being mostly ignored by Sherlock than I was being clutched at by the women I dated. He didn’t touch me, hardly, and he mostly didn’t say “Good work, Watson.” But I thought I could live with that. I thought there was some good I could do him by staying with him. I thought he**

**When Sherlock died**

**This is ridiculous. He’s alive, he’s fine, he’s real, I can see him whenever I want to.**

**But when I write “When Sherlock died” that’s all I can write. My therapist sometimes tries to get me to say things, says I need to get them out. And she’s right. She made me say “Sherlock Holmes is dead” and she was right, I needed to. She is right about me, about needing to say things I just can’t say.**

**There was so much I didn’t say to Sherlock, in those early days.**

**He didn’t like to be told things, anyway. He always figured he could deduce everything relevant, but he used it as a weapon as often as not, or as a shield. He would take people apart with it.**

**Except when he first met me, he didn’t. He saw right through me but acted as if he wasn’t put off by what he saw. He saw I was poor but also that I was proud. He could see my defective body – my cane, my limp – and only said “war hero”. I had an old, second–hand phone that was all scratched up, and he somehow knew that it couldn’t be mine, that I would never be so careless with my things.**

**I was careless with him, though. I said the same terrible things that everyone else said. Not to his face, but on this blog. I knew he was reading it but I thought he wouldn’t care, that he was above all that. I think I know better, now.**

**I thought I was being so virtuous and loyal, not believing for a second when they said he was a fraud. Not even when he said it himself. He expected me to believe it, he expected me to abandon him. He tried to make me do it but I wouldn’t.**

**In the end, though, I did. I did exactly what he expected. I wouldn’t believe the ‘fraud’ claims but when it came down to final test it sure looked like I believed ‘freak’.**

**Machine, I called him, just before I abandoned him. I said that to him, just before I left him alone.**

**And he was, he was all alone. Alone didn’t protect him, and I was too far away to do him any good. When he jumped, he was all alone. And that was my fault.**

**It was worse than anything I’d ever done during the war, anything that left me soaked in someone else’s blood. It was all I could think about for the next two years. I thought, if only, if only, if I only had one more chance, I’d make it up to him, leaving him alone like that.**

**I’d tell him. I promised myself if I got that miracle I’d let him know he didn’t ever have to be alone again.**

***

Lying there on the sofa, Sherlock ignored the tears that were trickling down his temples and into his ears. That he had done this to John was nothing new, but that John thought it was his own fault was almost unbearable.

This was not where he’d thought John was heading when he’d written about how mad and charming Sherlock was, not at all. He sneered at himself. _Did you think this was just a long-winded declaration of affection, Holmes? Would he still be living in his flat if it were?_

John hadn't said any of those things to him when he'd come home. Back from the dead. Not right away, and at no time since then. He'd changed his mind.

The realisation sank like a cold stone through his chest and into his gut. This was not a prelude to John at last coming home but an explanation of why John was staying away. An outline of all the reasons why John thought they were not good for each other. Of why he was too afraid to move back home. To Baker Street. Of why he wouldn’t come, of why he would never come back, except to visit.

 _But he held my hand._ He pleaded with himself. _It can’t be that, he let me touch him._ _He brought me a present. He said…_ But he hadn’t said anything conclusive. _He said ‘soon’_.

_Refresh._

_Refresh._

_Refresh._

Nothing. It was the wee hours now. John might well have passed out at his computer. He used to to that, even in the old days, if Sherlock was up and working on a case. He’d put his head down on his arms like a schoolboy and fall asleep at the table. Tonight he’d been typing and unburdening himself for hours, and might not even have stopped for food. He’d be tired.

He was older now, too. Perhaps he had fallen asleep and that would be it until tomorrow. Or perhaps that was the end of it, full stop.

_No. No, he wouldn’t leave it there. He’s a thoughtless man in many ways, but he isn’t cruel._

Sherlock groaned and rolled off the sofa and onto the floor with a dull thump, narrowly avoiding the coffee table, but then heaved himself to his feet and went to unearth his violin from behind his chair by the fire.

 _Mrs. Hudson is sleeping._ Once the thought had occurred, he couldn’t un-think it, and it meant that screeching out his frustration on the violin was out of the question. So also was stomping around the flat and knocking over furniture. Or shooting anything. His life had been so much simpler before these concerns had wormed their way into his brain.

In the end, he took his computer under one arm and carried his violin up to John’s bedroom.

The room did not smell of John. To imagine that it did would be sentimental drivel. The sheets had not been slept in since the last time they were changed, and he was never in here for more than a few hours at a time. Sherlock took a deep breath anyway.

He placed the laptop, open, on John’s bed, and set to playing through his turmoil. He only clicked refresh when he came to the end of a movement, and congratulated himself on his composure.

At last another post appeared, mid-way between midnight and dawn. It was long and difficult to read. Well, no, this was John’s writing, it was easy to read, but difficult to take in.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**I knew he was dead, though. I could make my little promises to him in my mind but I knew he was dead. Eventually I could say it out loud whenever Ella told me to. I knew I couldn’t ever change what I’d said to him. I lived with that regret for two years, and it was worse than anything I’d ever felt with James.**

**That’s what finally helped me make up my mind to be normal. I’d tried, twice, to have that other life, the one that actually made me feel alive, and each time it was a disaster. Normal was what I really needed. Obviously there was a reason people chose it. Who did I think I was, to try to make a different kind of life? The normal life was normal for a reason: because the other kind of life is just too hard.**

**Other people know this instinctively. Not me, I guess.**

**Mary turned up at exactly the right time. Of course she did, it was planned, and I guess I’d been living away from Sherlock for long enough that I didn’t find it at all suspicious. New nurse at the surgery, pretty, funny, a little edgy. Not too pushy, but making her interest known. Making the first move. Exactly what I thought I needed.**

**And what a fucking disaster. I think I knew it on some level even then.**

**I’d made up my mind, though. Normal. Proposal, over dinner. Wedding. Nothing was going to derail me. What other choice did I have? James had cut me off, and Sherlock was gone.**

**No, I was going to come away from the edges if it killed me. (Maybe there was still a part of me that wished it would.)**

**I should have known, when Sherlock came back, right at that moment, I should have known that I couldn’t be with anyone else.**

**I did know. His face, his beautiful face, trying to make a joke of it, because what else could he do, and then looking so fucking lost, and I hit him. More than once. I threw him to the floor and I hit him because if he’d just given me _one word_ before Mary had turned up, I would have waited for him forever.**

**One word. Mycroft, the homeless network, Molly Hooper, his parents… seemed like everyone had known, and no one thought I needed to know. Not even Sherlock.**

**That was the hardest part, harder than the guilt when I thought he was dead, and not for the obvious reason. I’m going to try to explain.**

**It stung that he didn’t think I could help, sure. Of course that hurt. That I was so useless to him, that he trusted me so little. That he could go off and live his dangerous life for two years and not wish he had John Watson to...conduct some light for him. That hurt, a lot. I could hardly function without him, but he could still take down international crime networks without me. I never thought I was that necessary to him, but still.**

**The thing that absolutely killed me, though, was that he really didn’t know. I’d hidden myself so completely that he really thought it would be no big deal for me to watch him**

**say it Watson, you’ve this come this far, say it.**

**To watch him fall**

**no**

**to watch him jump, choose to jump, the flailing arms**

**And then to see him**

**His skull**

**Fuck, he’s alive. He’s fine. He’s _fine_. This has no business being this hard.**

**Write it. Don’t edit. Go. Go.**

**To see his skull smashed on the pavement, with his eyes blank, with his blood washing into the gutter, and feel his limp hand, with no pulse. To see him broken and dead, no Sherlock there anymore, ever.**

**He didn’t really think that would affect me too much.**

**He didn’t know.**

**And then he came back and I was so hurt and angry and scared that despite all my promises to myself, I still didn’t tell him. How can I explain that? How is that forgivable? There was still so much he didn’t know. There’s still so much he doesn’t know.**

***

“John.” His voice wasn't working. He cleared his throat. “John, I did want you there, I did trust you, you are _necessary_ -”

The John in his mind cut him off. “Shut up, Sherlock.” His voice was harsh and uncompromising. Sometime since Sherlock had last addressed him, this John had become a seething ball of rage.

Sitting there on the edge of the bed, Sherlock stared up at him in shock.

The John in his mind was almost spitting. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t say this to me. Don’t you dare. Don’t tell me, _I’m just you_. Say it to him, if you’re going to say it, or you’re a bigger coward than he thinks he is.”

“He’s not a coward.” Sherlock surged to his feet, aghast. “He’s not. How can you even...how can you say that?”

“I _didn’t_ say that. He did.” He shook his head in disgust. ”Haven’t you been paying attention? _Think_ , Sherlock. He's told you why he's a coward. Aren't you reading these posts? He's told you why he’s unforgivable. Why aren't you seeing this?”

This John was out of control. He'd never been like this before.

Hands in hair, gripping, pulling. A growl of frustration. “But none of this was his _fault_.”

“Wasn't it? He's explained all that.” This John was relentless. Still angry. At whom? At Sherlock, for being dense? At John? (Because this wasn’t John, not really. Not at all.)

“Then I do forgive him. Of course I do.” He shrugged. Simple.

John barked a furious laugh. “Sherlock, listen to yourself. You forgive him? Great. But here's the thing, Sherlock: _H_ _e hasn’t even asked you to_.”

Sherlock stopped short in his mad whirl around the bedroom. His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, and he saw it all so clearly. He smiled.

“That’s what he’s doing now.”

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**When Sherlock asked me to move back to Baker Street, I said no. I never said why. Even now I’m not sure I can explain it. It’s the thing I want most in the world, to be with him every day, to have that life back.**

**It’s just – I needed to tell him some of what I never said.**

**I am so fucking sorry for everything I put him through. For everything he willingly put himself through, for me. Even though he didn’t think I cared about him that much.**

**He jumped to protect me. It hurt me, it almost killed me, but he did it to protect me. And then the next two years, wherever he was, he took that on alone to protect me. And everything he’s done since the second he came back has been to make me happy. He planned my wedding. He defended my wife, even after she**

**Meanwhile everything I did was to protect myself.**

**He asked me to forgive him and I did, of course I did, I do, how could I not forgive what was just about the most selfless act I could think of? But I have never asked him to forgive me, and I think my crimes were greater than his.**

**I need him to know what he’s asking for, what he’s inviting back into his life. I want him to have the chance to change his mind. I need to tell him**

**There are a few more things I need to tell him.**

***

It was almost dawn. Sherlock stared, unseeing, over the top of his computer screen.  Nothing more appeared. After several minutes Sherlock concluded, from no more data whatsoever, that this was the silence of John Watson wholly unburdened and exhausted and spent, rather than the silence of waiting.

He carried his phone and his laptop to the bedroom and collapsed there, and slept as the sun rose over Baker Street.

It was mid-morning when he awoke and clicked Refresh one more time. There was a new entry there, only a few minutes old. John had awoken.

***

**Doctor John H. Watson – Private Blog**

**So that’s it, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I’m sorry I couldn’t say this, I’m sorry for making you worry, making you guess. (I know you hate guessing.) I’m sorry for all of the hurt I caused you, for all the times I denied you, and for everything I should have said and didn’t. I’m sorry for making you feel like you didn’t matter to me. You do. You always have.**

**You matter to me so much.**

**I’d like to come and say this to your face. And also...there are a few other things I need to tell you. In person, face to face. I’ve been acting like a coward, but I can do this much. I can do it now. There are things I need to ask you. Please let me, even if the answer turns out to be no.**

***

The phone was in his hand before he could remember deciding to pick it up. He didn’t know what the question was, but the answer was obvious. _New text._

 _The answer is yes. Please come home. SH._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/). Say hello.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long night. John has posted confession after confession on his private blog, and Sherlock has read every word. John just has one or two things left to say to Sherlock, and they can't be any more than mere formalities, can they? And then smooth sailing after that. But this is John and Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings would be spoilers, but please read the tags if you have triggers you wish to avoid.
> 
> Thanks to dedicated betas:  
> [cakepopsforeveryone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/pseuds/cakepopsforeveryone)  
> [weweretold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weweretold/pseuds/weweretold)  
> and  
> [sincerelychaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelychaos/pseuds/sincerelychaos)

Sherlock was at the kitchen table when John arrived. He heard the door. It opened, and then it closed - slowly and deliberately. Next came John’s step on the stairs up to the landing. That, too, was slow. Slow but steady.

By the time John paused on the landing, Sherlock had risen and opened the kitchen door. He stood there, not quite in the doorway, and looked down at John.

John looked back up at him, and for a moment, neither man spoke.

Then: “Hello, John.” Sherlock had no idea how he was expected to behave after...everything.

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock.”

They were silent for a moment longer. The air was thick with unworded fears and feelings. John stayed where he was, licking his lips and flexing his hands. _He’s nervous,_ Sherlock realised. _Well? So are you._ So strange, to be nervous now, now that everything - or almost everything - was on the table.

Finally John said, “Can I come up?” As if it had ever been Sherlock barring the way.

Sherlock swallowed. “Of course.” He stayed well back from the kitchen entrance as John mounted the stairs. When he reached the top, John darted a brief glance at Sherlock, and - although he was nowhere near him - appeared to _edge_ past him, and entered the flat through the lounge.

Sherlock followed him, keeping his distance. That was what John seemed, inexplicably, to want.

John was there, now, in the sitting room, standing in front of the fireplace, still in his jacket, facing the door. His hands were restless at his sides, twitching and flexing compulsively, until he seemed to catch himself and brought them sternly under control, clasped at his back. _Parade rest._

They faced each other. John had things to tell Sherlock, and things to ask him. Nevertheless, he was standing on the hearthrug, still in his jacket, not speaking.

Was he waiting for Sherlock to begin? There was no possible way he would find the right words. The silence stretched on, and John _still said nothing_ , for all that speaking was his entire reason for being there. Sherlock found that he was disinclined to make this easier for John. It felt a little like anger. He waited.

John frowned at the floor. He took a breath and, finally, spoke. “You, er, read everything, then?”

 _Every word._ “Yes.”

John glanced at his face. “I wanted to make sure - Sherlock, I have so much... I don’t even know where to start.”

Sherlock relented a little. “You _have_ started,” he pointed out.

“I suppose. It was a bit of a roundabout way of doing it.”

“You found a way that worked.” His anger had ebbed slightly, now that they were talking. He could feel it lurking, though, not too far away. He ignored it. “John, those blogs...I never even imagined. I would have said I already knew everything of importance about you, or could deduce it. Everything.”

John’s eyes had wandered back up to Sherlock’s face. “Well, for most things you could; that was usually true. Almost always. Almost everything.”

“No.” The realisation struck him dumb for a moment.

“No?”

“The things I could deduce were only the least important things. Facts - surface, superficial, only the most basic facts. Nothing of _substance_.”

“Pardon? Is this Sherlock Holmes telling me that facts are unimportant?” Despite his discomfort, John was smiling now, _teasing._

Sherlock was in no mood for joking, though. “Not that facts are unimportant. Just that I was looking at the wrong kind of facts.”

“And were these the right kind of facts?” John looked up hopefully. “Did it...help?”

 _Help?_ Just like that, the anger was back. _Help_. Was that what it had all been for? Sherlock drew himself up. “I hardly think I was the one who needed help, John.”

“No, I didn’t mean - “

“In fact, I have made my preferences quite plain, I thought.”

“Your preferences…?” John’s eyes flew to his face.

“For you to move back to Baker Street.” And this was all Sherlock was prepared to say, until John managed to spit out whatever he’d come here to say. John had started this.

“Ah.” John made one of his unreadable faces. “Yes, you’ve been clear about that.”

They lapsed into silence again. Sherlock resolutely did not offer tea.

 _No sense standing around._ Sherlock took a step towards his chair, which meant taking a step towards John. As soon as he moved, though, John stiffened and took a step back.

 _He took a step back._ Rapidly reassessing certain beliefs (hopes) as to why John was there, Sherlock stopped, raised his head, and settled his impassive face over the hurt.

John had seen it, though. He closed his eyes, passed a hand over the pained expression on his face. “Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry - I just…”

“It’s fine.” He fell back on their old standby, for use when it absolutely wasn’t fine. He did not take another step.

“Please, Sherlock. I’m cocking this up already. I don’t mean to. I just - I just wanted to know if you’d understood any of...any of what I was telling you.”

“About what.” John had _backed away_. Sherlock was not going to help here.

“About...well, my history. I don’t think you knew, did you? About…” John took a breath. “Well, about me and James, for example.”

It was true, Sherlock hadn’t known. How could he have? He desperately wanted to know more, and at the same time never to hear another word about it. There was no way he could ask. “You’re bisexual,” he blurted.

John blinked, blinked again. Sherlock cringed at his own ineptness. But John just said, “Um, yes, I guess that’s what you call it.”

“Is that what _you_ call it?”

“Mostly not, actually. Mostly I don’t call it anything.”

“You call it _not gay_.” Sherlock found he was not entirely above twisting the knife a little.

John winced a little at that. “Well, yes. Because I’m not. But deciding to be straight wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”

Sherlock waved that away. “You never said. About any of it.”

“Well, no, it’s not exactly the sort of thing you talk about.”

“It’s not exactly the sort of thing _you_ talk about.”

“Right.” John coughed, and his look turned pointed. “Or you, either, for that matter.”

“True.” But Sherlock was admitting nothing, not just yet.

John took a slow breath, and then another. Finally he said, softly, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

 _Me too._ “You said - you said you had something left to tell me. To ask me.”

John glanced at him, closed his eyes. Nodded.

“You said -” more forcefully, “You said you could do it now. Was that not true, John?”

“No, it was, it was.”

“Then please do it, John. I don’t know what you want from me.” It seemed Sherlock was tired enough to tell the plain truth. Was John dragging this out on purpose?

And suddenly Sherlock had had enough, and his anger surged back, full force. Before John could form an answer, and without planning to, Sherlock went straight on. “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, anyway. I have surely made my position more or less clear, have I not? I invited you home. I want you on cases. I’m here whenever you choose to grace me with your company. I… I _touched_ you, John. And you let me, you let me, you did. But it was me doing the touching.”

Now Sherlock did advance a few steps, and he was not deterred when John backed away, sidling around his chair and standing behind it, resting his hands on the seat back, keeping it between himself and Sherlock’s anger.

“Look at you, you’re _still hiding_. What is it you’re not telling me? That you came here _expressly to tell me_? Shall I guess, John? Shall I _deduce it?_ Is that what you’re waiting for me to do?” _Like a weapon_ , John had said. _Or a shield._ So be it.

John blanched. “No, Sherlock, please – ”

John was pleading with him not to, and in spite of his anger he didn’t want to. To hurt him with words, with deductions. Mustering the last vestige of his resolve to be honest, Sherlock tried one more time. He knew how small his voice would sound. He said it anyway. “I touched you. John. I wanted to show you… John, _talk to me_. Do you not want…?” and here he snapped his jaw shut, because if he said another word his voice would break, and why was he the one taking all the risks?

“I do, I do want.” John appeared to finally pull himself together, and now, at last, his words came in a rush. “I want so much, Sherlock. I did want you to touch me, I do want it. Everything I told you, everything I wrote to you, it was because I can’t, I can’t stay away from you. I don’t even want to. I know you’d be better off without me and I don’t -” A hitch to his breath as he rushed on - “I don’t even care. But I needed you to know all that first. I wanted to be honest for once. I don’t mean - I’ve never lied to you, but I am through with holding back the truth. I wanted you to know _everything_.”

John took a breath and stepped out from behind his chair, and Sherlock was so overwhelmed by the look on his face that _he_ actually took a step back when John advanced.

John stopped immediately. “Don’t, please. I don’t know how I can ask it of you, but don’t back away. I do want. I’ve been trying not to. I don’t deserve it. I want so much and I don’t deserve any of it.”

Sherlock paused in their complicated dance. _Deserve_. What an odd notion. As if anyone ever deserved what they got. “And what about me?” he asked quietly. “What do I _deserve?_ ”

“You deserve the best, Sherlock.” There was shame in John’s voice. _Shame_. It was unbearable.

“Well, that’s you, John. The best.” When John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock ploughed on. “No, you are, John, shut up. _Shut up_. You don’t get to decide for me what I ought to want. I have spent years, John, _years_ , training myself to want what I ought to want, and it got me two years of exile and the loss of the best thing in my life. A body full of scars I got in dark places with no one to, to conduct the light for me, and then I got home only to find a different sort of exile with different scars in a different kind of darkness. I’m _alone_ , John.” The shock of his own confession silenced him for a moment, then he finished, in barely more than a whisper, “Don’t tell me what to want.”

John regarded him from across the room. And then he took four steps and he was in front of Sherlock, a little more than arm’s reach away. _Almost close enough to touch._

“You did touch me. You held my hand. And Sherlock, that was so –” he swallowed “- so brave.” He huffed a laugh. “How messed up are we, that something as simple as holding hands is scarier than facing down a murderer? But it was, and you did it anyway. One of these days maybe I’ll be the brave one.”

_Said John Watson of the steady hand, slayer of dragons and assassins._

“What did you want to tell me, John? What did you want to ask?” Sherlock waited where he stood.

“I want to tell you how I feel.” John shook his head. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like sentiment. I don’t know how unwelcome this will be, but I’m going to say it anyway.” He took another short step towards Sherlock, who did not move. “I want to tell you that meeting you probably saved my life.” He closed his eyes, then opened them. “I’ve said some pretty awful things to you, written some pretty awful things.” Sherlock opened his mouth to contradict him, but John silenced him with a look. John was speaking now, and would not be stopped.

“I’m sorry.” John shook his head. “With what I said, with how I acted, you would never have known how I feel about you. What I think of you. Sherlock, you know I think you’re amazing on cases, but you - you’re not just clever, you’re _wise_ , I’ve said it before. And it’s all the time, not just on cases. You’ve warned me against hero worship, and you’re not a hero, maybe, but you’re _good_ , Sherlock, you’re a _good man_ , the very best, and I, I admire you more than anyone.”

At those words, Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. He had to struggle to maintain his composure. “I didn’t know that.” John’s praise came exclusively at the end of a case, when his deductions were _brilliant_ or _extraordinary_ , but by the time they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock was back to being a _dick_ and a _smartarse_. He didn’t mind the jibes, not really, they were almost always spoken fondly, but he felt himself glow a little at this open avowal of approval. Of _admiration_. John _admired_ him. He repeated himself. “I didn’t know that.” A pause. “You _admire_ me.”

“Yeah, of course I -- Wait, no.”

 _What?_ “No?” Sherlock, genius though he was, could hardly keep up with this roller coaster.

“No.” A final clench of his hands. “No, Sherlock. I love you.” And John looked directly at him, and did not back away. “I love you, Sherlock. I am in love with you.”

 _I am in love with you._ Sherlock felt his world go still and quiet, but for a rushing in his ears. He stopped breathing. He could, he thought he could just about grasp what John had said, he just had to make room for it. He blinked and blinked as his cumbersome thoughts ground around, glacially slow, and John’s words trickled, like rain or falling shards of glass, into the spaces between them.

John Watson took the final half-step that separated them, and reached out for Sherlock’s hand.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you. I had to say it, in the end. Out loud. I tried to keep it hidden. I didn’t - Sherlock, I’m really not - I’ve been so -” John huffed a frustrated sigh, his ability to finish sentences apparently exhausted. “You said I shouldn’t tell you what to want. That’s what I’ve been doing, all this time. I didn’t think you should want… well, I didn’t think you should want what I wanted, what I was trying not to want.”

“You didn’t think I should want _you._ ”  A small part of Sherlock’s brain had come back online, allowing his mouth to form words, apparently without the input of his mind, which looked on in horrified fascination. His eyes stared stupidly at their joined hands. His voice sounded all right, though.

John flushed. “Erm, yes. Right.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to John’s face. “But you? What do you want…?”

“...you.” For all the hesitation in his voice, John held Sherlock’s gaze when he said it.

Sherlock swallowed hard. It was everything he wanted, everything he hadn’t dared to hope for. He knew he should just say so.

Instead, he said, “And what did you want to ask me?”

“I want to ask you if you feel things - no, I know you feel things, I know you do. I want to know if you feel things _that way_. And if you do, could you feel it about me.” John’s hands were steady now. _He’s terrified._ John’s eyes did not waver, and his voice did not falter. “Could you, Sherlock? If I ask your forgiveness, for everything I’ve put you through, and if I’m willing to wait - and I am, Sherlock, I am. You waited for me. But could you?”

Sherlock frowned. What was John asking, exactly? Could Sherlock feel things _that way_ , could Sherlock forgive him, given time? Could Sherlock love him? Which question was John asking?

And then, in a rush, Sherlock realised that _it didn’t matter_ , because the answer to all three questions was the same. The words, held back for so long, came tumbling out of his mouth.

“Yes,” he said. “I feel things. I feel that. That way.” He was stuttering and making no sense, but he pressed on. “And yes, I forgive you. Of course. No question. And John? _No waiting_. No more waiting. John.” Sherlock’s mind cleared, his anger vanished, and he met John’s eyes directly. He smiled. “I could love you right now. I _do_ love you.” He held John's gaze a moment longer, gave his hand a little tug to bring him closer, and bent to claim his mouth. (It didn’t require any courage at all, in the end.)

Sherlock did not stop to check for John’s reaction, just leaned in and caught John’s mouth under his own. He had imagined this moment too many times to be timid or tentative now. He stepped straight into the void, and pressed his lips to John’s.

The first touch of their mouths sent a wave of sensation rolling over him. He inhaled deeply through his nose to ride it out, breathing in John’s smell all in a rush. _John’s smell_ , the smell of his mouth, of his skin, was not something Sherlock had words for, but he wanted more. He needed to taste John, to breathe him in. He pressed closer, drawing John’s lip in, sucking lightly and running the tip of his tongue along the soft flesh.

John’s breath was coming in long, wavering gasps through his nose. His eyes were shut, tight, and his body was swaying and trembling. Sherlock brought a steadying hand up to John’s face, caressing the skin of his throat with his fingers, and using the base of his thumb to open John’s mouth to his.

When Sherlock licked into his mouth, John’s knees seemed to buckle and he _moaned_ against Sherlock’s tongue. All of a sudden, Sherlock could _taste John’s voice_ , there was one taste for the warm, wet softness of his mouth and another one altogether for the sound that John made as Sherlock’s kiss made him lose his balance.

The sound of it, the _taste_ of it sent shockwaves through Sherlock’s body, and he advanced with lips and tongue and teeth, meaning now to _devour_ John’s mouth, after months, after years of hunger. He’d been confident before. He was _desperate_ now, taking John’s mouth in famished bites, in great, ravenous gulps. He lifted the hand that he was holding up to his own face and placed it there, pressing it against his skin. He could feel John all around him now.

John. John was almost limp against him, his mouth open to Sherlock, his breath unsteady, his body quivering. It looked like desire, it felt like...it felt like Sherlock felt, but before he lost himself completely, he had to --

“John,” he gasped out between kisses, “ _John_. Tell me this is all right, John. Tell me this is…” But he was kissing, kissing, _kissing_ John, there was no room for breath, no room for words.

John was mewling under his mouth now, almost keening. Sherlock released his hand and it immediately fell away from Sherlock’s face. The trembling turned to long, bone-deep shudders that had begun to look like convulsions. Somewhere in Sherlock’s brain a voice said, _it’s not all right, stop, it’s not all right_ and with a last frantic effort of will, he pulled away.

The silence in the flat was broken only by Sherlock’s heavy, panting breaths and John’s higher-pitched whimpers. John’s eyes and fists were tightly closed, and Sherlock was reminded sharply of the night he’d first asked John to move back. The same desperate hiding that he’d thought was finished with was back, and worse than ever.

It sounded like John’s nightmares used to sound, a lifetime ago. This was so far beyond not good.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, tentative. There was no response. “John, please. Please don’t. I’m sorry.” He was not at all sure what he had done wrong.

At Sherlock’s words, John’s eyes flew open, and he made to speak, but instead his mouth opened and closed, and he sucked in his breath, and his eyes darted around the room, like some frenzied, trapped thing.

When John’s eyes settled on the door of the flat, seeking _escape_ , Sherlock went into a blind panic. His words burst out in a rush.

“Oh god, oh god, don't leave, don't leave. If it's not what you want, if I misunderstood, that's ok, please, John, I’m sorry, just don't leave.” He held his arms up, palms out, and backed away from John. Moved to stand between him and the exit, talking all the while. “It’s fine, John. I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorr_ \- ?” John choked. “Not what I want?” John’s voice, when it finally came, was raw, as if it was being torn out of him. “ _Not what I want?_ Sherlock, it's the only thing I want, the only thing I want in the whole world and I can't, I can't, I'm so sorry, for everything, to come this far and then -  I just can't.” John’s anguish was unmistakable.

“Tell me _why_.” Sherlock was begging now with no thought at all to risk or dignity. The taste of John's mouth, the taste of John's moan were still on his lips, and now he was trying to leave and he _must not leave._

He had never seen John look more miserable, more broken, and he had seen him broken so many times.

“I don't know how. I want to, I owe you that, but I don't know how to say it.”

Suddenly Sherlock saw with perfect clarity exactly what would keep John from leaving.

“Then write it. Stay here and write it. Use the Billy laptop. _I'll_ leave. I won't come back till you tell me I can, only please, please just be here when I do. I know I ask a lot of you -”

“You don't. You never ask me for anything. You've only given and given…”

“That's - that's not true. I've wanted and wanted.”

“But you never asked.”

They stared at each other. They were speaking more than they had in years - if ever - yet what was unsaid was still greater than what they spoke out loud. It always had been, but this time they could almost hear it. It howled at them, it shouted, it _clamoured_ to be heard.

Above it, in a whisper, Sherlock pleaded, "Stay. Write it. Please."

***

Sherlock left the flat.

John had tried to protest. “I can’t push you out of your own flat.”

“You’re not pushing me.” He pulled the laptop out from under a pile of books and plugged it in for John. His voice was suddenly harsh. “You have done _enough leaving_ , John. You are _not leaving now_. You’re _not allowed_.”

At that, John’s mouth snapped closed on any further objection, and Sherlock had wrapped himself into his coat and surged down the stairs.

He turned left out the door onto Baker Street and headed for the park.

Once inside the green space, Sherlock consciously slowed his steps and made his way around the lake, reviewing in his mind everything that had happened.

He’d been so sure that John had wanted the contact. He couldn’t have misread that. John had said so, and it had been John who had closed the distance between them, John who had taken his hand…

_(John who had swayed against his body and yielded up his mouth to Sherlock, John who had moaned so deeply that Sherlock could taste it…)_

And then his willingness had shifted, had fled, when Sherlock had taken John’s hand and placed it on his face, to be replaced by...what? _A panic attack._ Sherlock had touched him, had kissed him, had placed John’s hands on his own body, and John had full-on _panicked_.

It was hardly a propitious beginning to...whatever it was they were starting. If anything.

He’d wandered partway around the lake, and settled on an empty park bench. He pulled out his phone and opened a new search.

 _Panic attacks._ A definition and a slew of descriptive articles. Too general. _Panic attacks while kissing._ Several unreliable sources.   _Panic attacks during_ (he hesitated) _intimacy._

There wasn’t anything helpful, but it kept him occupied. By the time his phone pinged the data had started falling into place. 

***

**Private Blog - Dr. John H. Watson**

**So first of all, my wife shot you.**

**You tried to make me feel ok about it with your bullshit story about surgery. It rang hollow that night, and obviously now I know it was always complete and utter rubbish. There are a lot of things I know now. I know what would probably have happened if I hadn’t married her, and given her that measure of security. But I still drove her into your path, and she tried to kill you.**

**She shot you, Sherlock. She might as well have killed you. I brought her into our lives. Well, my life, I guess. But even when you came back, I let her stay.**

**Look, though. Today you said you forgive me, and I believe you. I am not just writing this to wallow some more in my own guilt. If only that were all it was, I could have you in front of me, I could be kissing you right now, we could be**

**God, I wish**

**Please believe me, that I’d much rather be doing that than this.**

**You know a lot of what happened, Sherlock, and what was going on. I assume you do, anyway. Between you and Mycroft, is there anything you don’t know? Once you let me know who she was, that it was Mary who shot you, I never wanted to see her again.  But then she would really have been a loose cannon, and nothing could have kept you safe.**

**So I had to take her back. I had to _appear_ to take her back. You know that bit.**

**I know why I had to seem to forgive her, too, I understand that, I knew what I was doing, I know why I had to take her back, that’s all...fine. Well, not fine, but I understand it, and I’ve made my peace with it. I can do wrong things if the reasons are right enough. You know that about me by now.**

**The thing is, though, I had to**

**I had to follow through with my side of the plan. If we were ever going to stop these people I had to do this. You know I’m a rubbish liar and you know she can see through anyone and I had to convince her that I was for real. And I couldn’t do that without**

**Sherlock, I knew, I already knew that I only ever wanted to touch _you_ , ever again, I’m sorry if that’s too much to hear right now, if it’s too soon. (Or too late.) But we can’t be anything but honest anymore, can we? If I’m right about what’s happening between us I have to tell you everything. Anyway, it was you I wanted, and I had to**

**With her. She shot you, Sherlock, and I had to**

**That was the biggest part of the deception. If I forgave her, which I was supposed to have done, of course I would want to touch her, wouldn’t I? I’d want to be with her again, it had been so long for us. That’s what I would want if it were true.**

**And I didn’t. I did not want to touch her, and I did not want her hands on me. I thought I could still see the powder burns on her fingers. Smell them. You were still wincing a little if you turned too quickly, and there was me, with her. I had to go to bed with her. We had to be...intimate.**

**And I had to bloody perform, too.**

**Spit it out, Watson. Sherlock, I did it by thinking of you. I’m sorry if this is hard to read, Sherlock. If it disgusts you. It disgusts me. I did it by imagining that it was your body, your skin. That I was touching you. I thought of you, and I took my hands and I**

**Fuck. I can’t even write it. You know what I’m saying, I know you do. It feels important to say it anyway, maybe only because I absolutely _don’t want to_. Say it.**

**I had sex with her. Repeatedly. With my mouth and my hands. My body. Thinking of you so I’d be able to do it. And I never let her even guess how** **it made me feel. And it worked.**

**It worked, Sherlock. But then when I went to touch you, it was like she was there too.**

**Thinking about it still makes me feel a little sick. More than a little. It’s hard to write - and it’s stupid, because I did it on purpose, it was _my choice,_ it’s not as if I was coerced - but the word I keep thinking is ‘dirty’. And I don’t know how to get clean. I don’t know how this body can come back from that kind of lie.**

**Anyway, that’s it. I want to touch you, Sherlock. I want - I wish all those times I had to imagine it was you, I wish it really had been. Then there’d be nothing standing in the way of us being together the way I want us to be. God, when you kissed me**

**I’m such a disaster and you kissed me anyway and god, it was**

**that’s what I want, Sherlock. You and me, without anything coming between us. There’s always been something to come between us. I’m scared there always will be. That’s what you’d be getting if you were to take me on.**

**I wish I knew how to get her off my skin. You’re the only one I want on it.**

**I’m sorry I wrecked this before it ever happened.**

***

Sherlock re-read the entry. He was completely out of his depth.

“I told you,” said a soft voice behind him. John’s voice. He did not turn - it was not the real John - but it was comforting to hear his voice. “I told you I was damaged. You didn’t believe me.”

“You did tell me. I believed you. But I thought I’d seen all your damage. I didn’t…” Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t think of this.”

There were a lot of things he hadn’t thought of. He wondered how often he was going to be reminded of his own spectacular ignorance.

He’d been sitting on the bench a long while. He needed to move. He rose and continued his walk around the lake. “It should have been so _simple_ ,” he said aloud. They had both felt it, they had both wanted it, they had both been free to reach for it, what else was left?

“Are you forgetting the little matter of psychopath wives and criminal masterminds?” John, ever practical.

Sherlock waved a hand. “Obviously there were...complicating factors.”

“So? You’re going to solve this. Any ideas?”

“Four.” Sherlock frowned. “Three. And I hate them all.” Therapy. Living together as they used to, without the...contact. Living apart. All options either useless or unbearable.

If he had only known a few months ago, a year ago, two years before that, five years ago, how simple it was, they could have saved themselves all this time and trouble.

And this trouble, _this_ , this was worse, in a way, than any psychopath wife or criminal mastermind. This was inside John’s head, and Sherlock couldn’t get there.

“Well, in point of fact, you can. You always have.”

“Well, yes…” He scoffed at himself. As if he hadn’t spent their entire friendship stepping inside John’s head, and tweaking whatever wasn’t to his liking. _Could be dangerous. Hand me my phone. Too big and dangerous for any sane individual..._ Or even (he winced) _Alone protects me._ Of course he could change the way John thought.

He’d cured John’s limp, after all.

Now it was John’s shame that needed curing.

“I cured your limp,” he said aloud. As if to remind John, or to verify that it was true.

“Right. So…?”

“So, what?”

“Well, what can you learn from that? How did you do it?”

“By taking you out, making you run. Adrenaline. Excitement.”

He could feel John’s doubtfulness. “That’s not _quite_ true, though, is it.”

 _Oh._ Of course. He’d forgotten, he’d actually _forgotten_. John - the real John - had talked about this in his posts. Sherlock had cured John’s limp, but not in the way he’d thought. John had told him that. The limp had not been a sign of an unsatisfied addiction to danger, as Sherlock had believed at the time. It had been James’...abandonment that had caused it. Pain and - he struggled for the word - isolation. Sherlock had thought he’d cured it with danger, when really he’d cured it with...what?

“I don’t know.” John said. “Love?”

"Bah." Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous sentimentality. You’re a doctor - “

“But _you’re_ not.“

 _Not the real John. Right._ “Are you telling me that somewhere _deep down inside_ \- “ he sneered the words “- I truly believe that mental illness, that PTSD can be cured with _love_? That Julia Barnes could have saved her suicidal husband if only she’d _loved him enough?_ Even I would never suggest anything so inhumanly cruel. Nor would you. Or the real you, either. Apart from the horrendous implications, it’s also demonstrably untrue.”

John’s voice was silent for a while. Then he said, very quietly, “Not mental illness, no. But I didn’t suffer from PTSD. I suffered from sadness. I was alone, like you. I’d been abandoned, by James and by the army. _That’s_ what you cured, and yeah, I do think love can cure that. Or, if you’re put off by the L-word, then the other things that go along with it. Acceptance. Patience. Loyalty. Kindness.” 

“Did I give you those things?” He didn’t think he’d been kind to John. He was quite sure he’d been extremely _un_ kind, and he’d never been patient with anyone. But when he considered their odd connection, right at the beginning, he thought that maybe he had been, after a fashion. They both had, in ways that would not look like acceptance, patience, loyalty or kindness to any normal human being, but for both John and Sherlock, they worked.

Not a cure for post-traumatic stress, no. But for shame, and sadness, and loneliness...perhaps.

Sherlock asked, his voice small, an awful hope beginning to bloom, “Do you think it could work again?”

John’s voice began to withdraw, and sounded faint and distant as it faded away. “How are you going to find out?”

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. He had a new problem to solve, and he suddenly could not wait to go home and begin.

_Finished. Nothing is wrecked. Can I come home now? SH_

_I’m waiting. JHW_

His heart leapt. John was waiting for him.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes back to Baker Street after reading John's final confession. Everything is out in the open now, but that doesn't always mean smooth sailing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my amazing betas: May_Shepard, Itsallfine, Sincerely Chaos, Weweretoldandwelistened and Cakepopsforeveryone  
> I definitely overused you this time, for this chapter and the next. I needed a lot of hand-holding, and you were all there for me in spite of moving house, doing NaNoWriMo, revising a novel, making shedloads of green carnations and generally having a life. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

John was sitting in his chair when Sherlock clattered up the stairs and burst through the door of the sitting room. He strode over and drew himself up directly in front of John, who gazed up at him warily. Sherlock unwaveringly met his eye.

John stated the obvious. “You’re back.”

“Yes, _of course,_ John _.”_

“It wasn’t _of course_. What I told you is...appalling.”

Sherlock’s steady gaze did not falter. “I’m not appalled.” Except by John’s obvious self-loathing.

“Maybe you should be.”

“ _Should_ , again. Because that concept has been _so helpful_ to us thus far. Do carry on.” John’s mouth pulled back at this, in a mirthless smile. Sherlock continued. “You of all people know the many and varied kinds of human behaviour I encounter in my work. There is a great deal of it that could be considered appalling, even _sickening_ , if I were of a bent to be sickened by that sort of thing. This is not in the same category.”

John did not reply, but he appeared to be listening, despite his doubtful expression.

Since John hadn’t stood from his chair, Sherlock backed up and seated himself in his. He continued, “John, I am not even sure what you think I ought to be blaming you for. How can you expect to be unaffected by sexual trauma?”

John jerked his head up at this, frowning. “I wasn’t coerced, Sherlock. I told you that. I wasn’t _assaulted._ I chose it.”

Sherlock stared at John. Mary had slept with John since before their marriage, and her intentions had always been false.She had lied to him from the outset, and every instance of intimacy with John was part of that lie, up to and including the encounters where John was lying too. She had _used_ his body, in a way that Sherlock had not allowed himself to contemplate even today, lest he be sickened indeed. She had used the intimacy he had offered her so freely, offered by John Watson to so few. And yet John believed he hadn’t been assaulted.

Then again, John was a soldier. To him, in spite of years of evidence to the contrary, if it didn’t bleed, it wasn’t a wound.

Sherlock contented himself, finally, with, “Still, hardly what you would call unproblematically _consensual_ , all the same.” He could not imagine that they would get very far in a philosophical discussion of what constituted consent or coercion. And that was not the point at all, anyway. Softly, he added, “You did it for me.”

John sniffed, not denying it. There was a pause. Then, “I wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this. John still expected to be abandoned. “Well, I am.” Curtly. “Is that all, now?”

“Is what all?”

“Come on, John. Keep up. I want to see if I’ve got it all.” Sherlock enumerated the items on his list. “First, the private blog posts, I read those. You expected from me – what? Shock? Dismay? Some of it surprised me, yes, some of it worried me, and made me doubt myself, but John, I want to _know_ you. I couldn’t... I couldn’t look away.” The honesty was coming without effort, now. When had that happened? He wondered briefly if the effect was reversible.

“Second, you love me. That’s what you had to tell me, that you’re in love with me. And to ask – well, my forgiveness, I suppose, and whether I could love you back. I could. I can. I _do._ ” He frowned. “I love you, John. Did you expect I meant that _contingently_? Upon the condition of a trouble-free sex-life, or complete amnesia as to the events of the past – what? Year? Two? How long would be sufficient, do you think? _I love you,_ John. Do I do that so easily, that you think I would change my mind the next instant?”

“I didn’t think you would change your mind. That’s not – you wouldn’t, I know. I just didn’t think you had all the information, all the _data,_ ok? About what I am. About – ” but here John’s voice broke again and he stopped talking. Sherlock felt an unaccustomed stab of pity for him, having to be so open and visible, and he so private.

“What you are…? John, we’re not children. We’re not _innocents._ Neither of us. You've been broken in one way or another for as long as I've known you. You can’t have thought _that’s_ what would put me off. You came to me...damaged. And exceptional. Remarkable.” John started here, in surprise. Sherlock waved his hand to stop John from speaking, and carried on. “That’s the trick of John Watson, I think. To figure out which bits are _broken_ and which bits are merely extraordinary. For the broken bits, you fix them, and then for the extraordinary bits, you _get the hell out of the way._ ”

They grinned at each other then, in spite of their heaviness. Some of the tension leaked out of the moment.

John said, “It’s not that I doubt you. I just don’t know...I don’t know, how long it will take, what will work, how many more times I’ll freak out on you like that. It’s hard to explain. It just doesn’t seem fair. To you.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked. “Because I am perfect and unblemished. I see. So, what shall I do? Choose whomever is next in the queue? And then the next person, and so on until I find the one who is without flaw? Do you think I have a _choice_ here? About whom to love? Do _you_ have a choice?”

John laughed shortly. “Point taken. I thought I would, you know? I thought being bisexual would mean that I really could choose. I couldn’t seem to get it right with the men I wanted, so I figured I could just, you know, choose women.”

Sherlock said nothing. There were too many ways to say the wrong thing.

John registered the tone of Sherlock’s silence. He sighed. “I never had any choice at all, with you. I could never have chosen not to love you.”

Sherlock felt the soft smile emerge upon his face and did nothing to stop it. “I’m glad,” he murmured.

“Are you? Can’t see what good it’s ever done you.”

“Look, John, this is pointless. You’re sorry. Fine, good. You’re forgiven. That was never in question. A lot of what you’re sorry for is actually my fault. No, shut up, it is, let me finish, it is. I’m sorry I left you. I didn't know how it would break you. And even after I came back, I couldn’t have known how _she_ would break you. There was so much I didn’t know. So I’m sorry too.”

Would it always be like this, endless apologies, endless re-avowals of forgiveness, no moving on?

John appeared to be thinking the same thing. He made it a joke. “Aren’t we a couple of sorry sods.”

Sherlock gave a small chuckle, but still, “Yes, and can we stop now? Can you stop coming up with impediments and barriers? Two hours ago you were telling me you loved me and I was –” He kept his voice very steady. “I was kissing you.” They seemed to have moved backwards from there.

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat. “Yes, and it was bloody incredible.” He met Sherlock’s eyes. There was heat in his gaze, in spite of the uncertainty.

“Well, I want that again.” Enough waiting for John. Sherlock sat forward, at the edge of his chair, and fixed John with a piercing look. He felt a wave of protectiveness towards this man, of a kind he’d never quite experienced before. He said, “I don’t want to panic you, John, but you’ve always worked best right on the border of what ought to terrify you. On the edges. You said that. Well, I want these edges, John. In whatever way – I won’t _abandon_ you, John. Not again. Not ever.”

John met his eyes, finally, with every expression Sherlock had ever seen on his face, all at the same time. He whispered, “I want it, too.”

That was enough. Sherlock did not wait for further permission but dropped off the edge of his seat and landed on his knees at John’s feet. He placed his hands on the armrests of John’s chair and brought his body forward. “I want – John, we’ll go slow, all right? I won’t – I’ll try not to push you.”

John’s hands. John’s hands were resting on the arms of his chair. Sherlock had held John’s hand twice now. It was an easy place to begin.

His fingers encircled John’s wrist and lifted it, allowing his other hand to slip beneath his fingers in a gentle hold. He brought John’s knuckles to his mouth, pressing his lips to each of the rough mounds in turn.

He held John’s eyes the whole time. His mouth still pressed against the backs of John’s fingers, he asked, “Is this all right?”

John’s eyes were steady and – at last – unwavering as he nodded. _It’s all right_.

He kissed John’s knuckles again, lipped them, tongued them. Flicker of tongue between the fingers, deep kisses across the knuckles, until Sherlock was kissing the backs of John’s fingers as deeply and as passionately as he had kissed ( _would kiss, please, would kiss_ ) John’s mouth.

Suddenly, though, John pulled his hand away, removed his hand from Sherlock’s grasp, and laid it back on the arm of the chair. They were no longer touching.

Sherlock looked up at him, questioning, almost bereft (was he backing away?) but then John’s body flexed, and he slowly lifted his shoulders off the back of his chair. No, not leaving, not pulling away, instead raising his body from its reclining position and bringing it _closer,_ closer to Sherlock, where Sherlock knelt on the floor between his knees.

Sherlock could hear John’s breath – was it coming faster than usual? – and saw the moment when his lips parted. John’s mouth, slightly open. _So brave._

They kissed, then. They each gave a little sigh, and their lips met, and they kissed. Sherlock found he had already formed a sense memory of the taste and smell of John’s mouth, and he let John fill his senses as they kissed.

_Don’t push._

Sherlock held his body back and kept the kiss chaste, a gentle, undemanding press. It was enough, it was enough, it was _everything_. They moved together, readjusting their mouths, realigning their angle, making small, sweet sounds as their lips met in tiny sips and sucks. It was more than enough.

Despite the innocence of the kiss, the restraint, Sherlock felt his desire growing. It gave him a peculiar pleasure to feel the buildup of his own arousal while at the same time withholding all demands, and keeping his rising ardour out of the kiss.

 _Don’t push._ He had promised.

He had promised not to push John, but _oh_ , it was hard, with the taste of John’s mouth under his lips, with the memory of the other kiss, so full of need and passion, not to slide his hands up the armrests and let his body rest on John’s, not to tilt his chin and open his mouth and thrust with his tongue. To taste only, delicately and courteously, not to gorge himself.

And then it was John who moved his head just _so_ , allowing his lips to part further and his tongue to prod gently along the seam of Sherlock’s lips until the taller man also opened his mouth, giving access. And it was Sherlock who moaned from his depths into the kiss.

 _John_ was pushing, John was deepening the kiss, and Sherlock was nearly lost already. He searched frantically for a scrap of his resolve even as he raised himself and leaned forward, moving one hand to rest against the back of John’s chair, daring to caress John’s face with the fingers of his other hand. Then, _oh,_ the relief and joy when John leaned into his touch and kept on kissing him.

He wanted John’s hands on him. Anywhere, any kind of touch. He wanted John to reach out, but John’s hands lay in his lap, unmoving. He _wanted_ those hands.

“John,” Sherlock gasped out, “John, touch me.” And he felt John go still. His hands did not move.

Sherlock pulled back. John’s eyes were closed, but no longer with pleasure. His mouth, so recently questing, hungry, open to Sherlock, was closed and thin-lipped.

_Oh, god, don’t push, you made one promise, don’t push._

Sherlock’s hands moved soothingly, John’s face, arms, shoulders. “Easy, John, shh, easy. I’m sorry. Don’t worry. Take it easy.” He placed tiny kisses on the unhappy mouth. “Kiss me, just kiss me, if you want. That was all right, wasn’t it? There.”

Slowly, John’s mouth relaxed under the gentle kisses, and before long they were, again, where they had been. Their slow exploration continued without further escalation until John was once again fully open beneath Sherlock’s mouth.

And then John’s hand lifted off his lap and settled on Sherlock’s shoulder. Then he felt the hand spasm on his shoulder, and John once again went still and tense.

Sherlock was not going to allow this. John was not to be pushed.

“Shh, John.” He pressed his forehead to John’s. “Slow down. I’m not pushing you. Just wait,” Sherlock insisted. They breathed together for a moment. “Do you – do you want to stop?”

“ _No.”_

“What do you want?”

_“Everything.”_

Well, so did Sherlock. To have John this close, under his mouth, under his hands, and not to be able to continue was...difficult. Torturous. “Me, too,” he whispered. “Me, too.”

Nevertheless, he had to think. He held up a hand, and everything...stopped.

***

“He’ll know you’ve shut him off.” The other John spoke from the sofa. It was always complicated when they were both in the room together, but this was an emergency.

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will. He notices now.” Of course he was right. He was, essentially, _Sherlock._

“Then best not waste time.” Though he could fit quite a long thought process into a very brief space of time. “He panicked again. I need to know _why._ ”

“He’s already told you why.”

“No, he hasn't. Has he?” What had John told him? Not in words, or not only in words. What had John told him?

John was fine when Sherlock had kissed him. More than fine. The first time he had ( _gone weak in the knees, had lost his balance, had practically fallen into Sherlock’s arms and moaned into his mouth)_ seemed to really enjoy it, and the second time it had been John who had escalated, so clearly he’d enjoyed that, too.

When Sherlock had taken John’s hand and pressed it to his face, though, that’s when John’s shivers had turned to shudders. When Sherlock had pleaded _touch me,_ John had frozen where he sat.

There might be an answer there. He set it aside.

What else? What else had John already told him?

 _The blogs_. Practically everything John had told him in words had been in written form. Sherlock scanned through his record of the blogs. He had re-read them several times, and although he had not exactly committed them to memory, he retained several key phrases that had struck him as telling.

He scrolled through these now, swiping aside irrelevancies.

There was this: **I thought of you, and I took my hands and I**

And this: **And I never let her even guess how dirty it made me feel.**

And, oh god, this: **But then when I went to touch you, it was like she was there too.**

Also possibly pertinent: **And I don’t know how to get clean.**

Most of the passages were all from the same entry, the one about Mary, but there was one more nagging at him, and he finally found it. It had been when he’d talked about Afghanistan: **the things I had to do with my hands, with my bare hands...I couldn’t imagine touching someone I cared about with those hands.**

_***_

_“Touching.”_

“What?” John was still seated before him, eyeing him warily where he rested on his knees, unseeing. “What is it you find touching?”

“No, not –” Sherlock emerged abruptly into reality. “Touching. Touching is the problem. You don’t want to touch me.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, how the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

“You only had problems when I put your hands on me, or when I asked you to. That’s when you started to freeze up. And you wrote about it. In your blog. What you did with your hands, and not wanting to – ”

“ _I do want to,_ ok? I want to touch you. I’ve wanted – Sherlock.” John swallowed. “It hurts not to touch you. My hands hurt, not touching you.”

Sherlock frowned. John said he wanted to, but each time he tried, he couldn’t.

***

From over on the sofa: “It’s not about what he _wants_.”

“Obviously.” All right, so John wanted to touch him. But touching – John had always found it hard, found it complicated. Awkward. He’d always preferred to let others do the touching. It was a relief to him when someone else took that on. But he’d said he wanted to. “So why can’t he?”

“Ask him,” came the voice behind him.

***

To the real John: “Why can’t you, then?”

“I don’t know.” He made a frustrated noise, then grinned ruefully. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you leave the flat again while I figure it out. Let me think a minute and I’ll try to say something sensible.”

***

“What do you think he’ll come up with?” Sherlock directed his question to the silently observant John on the sofa.

John shrugged. “How can I know? He wants you to touch him, he’s fine with that. How did he put it? _You’re the only one he wants on his skin_.”

“He’s the only one I want on mine.”

***

The real John spoke again. “It’s because I feel like I can’t –” his voice cracked, but he cleared his throat and carried on. “Like I gave away a part of myself, an important part.”

“It was _taken_ away.”

“No, I _gave_ it away. I had to. But I don’t know how to get it back.”

John gave of himself so rarely. Hardly ever. To whom had he ever…?

***

“Yes, to whom?” This John always asked pertinent questions.

It was best to answer. “To James.”

“And what happened?”

“He didn’t want...or at least didn’t accept what John was offering.” _The broken man at the wedding. What must it have cost him, telling John no? Sending him away? And then seeing him married, the ‘normal’ life he’d encouraged John to seek? Knowing that he could have been the one –_

“Focus. Who else?” _(Mr. Holmes, you and I are similar, I think.)_

“Me.”

“And what happened?”

 _Oh, god, the fall._ But if he revisited that guilt again, they would stay stalled here forever. Sherlock glowered at the John on the sofa and refused to answer.

“No, really. What was different when you got back? What happened to John when you didn’t accept…?”

 _When I chose to leap, apparently to my death, instead of accepting what John would have offered so freely..._ “I didn’t know! I didn’t know what he was offering! It was mine for the taking but I didn’t know!”

John stood up from the sofa and spoke sternly. “Stop panicking! You’ve been over that, it won’t help you here. Listen to the question. What was different about John?”

What _was_ different? He remembered thinking over that exact question, trying to pinpoint what had changed. Even after John had forgiven him, there was a change. Part of it was Mary. Possibly all of it was Mary. But for whatever reason... _oh._

“John didn’t belong to me anymore.” He’d thought that exact phrase, months ago. That was the difference. “He took it back. It wasn’t mine anymore. _He wasn’t._ ”

“So who does he belong to now?”

He winced. “‘To whom does he – ’”

“ _Sherlock._ ”

 _Fine._ “He belongs...well, he belongs to himself.” He frowned. There was something not right there.

“Except the part of him he gave away.”

“It was taken away.”

“He says he gave it.”

 _“It was taken_.” He was not going to argue the point with the real John, but it seemed important to say.

A shrug. “So who has it now?”

 _Mary._ He would not say it, he would not admit it. She didn’t want it, she didn’t value it. It was never hers. But she had taken it from John all the same, and John was now _afraid_ to touch Sherlock. _Dirty,_ he’d said. Mary was on John’s skin like a stain and he did not want to...Sherlock searched for the word. Didn’t want to _taint_ Sherlock. _Not Mary._ He would not say it. Mary had _no part_ of John. John was _not hers._ “John is _mine._ ”

Standing by the sofa, John’s posture relaxed, and he smiled. “He’d like to be.”

 _Oh. OH._ John wanted to belong to Sherlock. It was exactly as Sherlock had thought, all those months ago. While he’d been dead, John had stopped belonging to Sherlock, had looked for someone else to belong to, had tried to find another home, had built it – Sherlock searched desperately for the right metaphor – _out of straw, out of cards, on sand,_ and it had come crashing down. _John wanted to belong to Sherlock._ But he didn’t have all of himself to give.

“I have to go and get him myself.”

“What?”

“He’s waiting for me to come get him. To come get the parts of him he thinks he can’t give me. I have to go get them.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?”

Sherlock tried to say nothing, but he could have no secrets from the John who was really his own mind. “I have to touch him again. And this time keep on touching him.”

“Sherlock,” he said, warning. “You can’t fix this like that. You can’t, you can’t just _have sex with him_ and expect to _fix_ him.”

“Oh, I’m not going to fix him.” Sherlock turned away from the John on the sofa, back to the John before him, looking miserable in his chair. He _knew_ this would work. It _had to_ work. “I’m going to _claim_ him.”

***

His hands dropped to his lap, and his eyes snapped back to the present. He focused on John.

“Back again, then?” John’s voice was gentle.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

“You said you didn’t know how to get that piece of yourself back.”

“Well, okay...and?”

“I was figuring out how to find it.”

“Sherlock, I was speaking figuratively. It’s not like a missing jewel.”

Sherlock gave John a look. “I am perfectly capable of understanding metaphors, John. Please give me some credit.”

“All right, fine. Did you solve the case?”

“Naturally.”

“So? How can I get this completely imaginary piece of myself back from Mary?”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t – ? You just said –”

“But I can.”

“You.”

“Yes, me.” Sherlock licked his lips. “If we’re sticking with the metaphor, you only want it back – whatever it is – so you can give to to me, correct?”

John stared at him for a complicated moment. Then: “...Yes.”

“Well, then it’s _mine.”_ He lowered his voice. “ And I am going to _claim_ what’s mine.”

John struggled for rationality even as his lips parted and his eyes darkened. “This is...this is, none of it, very...factual. Completely illogical, one might say.” He was staring at Sherlock’s mouth.

“I don’t care, John. None of what I feel is logical.”

Sherlock’s knees were starting to hurt, there where he knelt at John’s feet, but he leaned up again, and rested his hands on John’s thighs. This was where he had to say what had seemed so simple and obvious in his mind. This was where he had to risk everything.

“John, I want everything you’re willing to give me. I have wanted to touch you – I’ve wanted to touch you always. _I want to put myself on your skin,_ John. It only feels right.”

He began making small circles with his palms and fingers on John’s thighs. John watched.

“And I think, if I can get enough of me onto you – and I’m still being figurative here, mostly – you’ll be able to see –” He made a frustrated noise. “John, I’m not, I don’t talk like this, I don’t really know how. But what I’m saying is, if you want – and you’ll tell me if you don’t, I know you will – if you want, I’ll do the touching. You can sit there, or you can – you can come to, come to bed…” John’s eyes snapped up and burned into his, forcing him to keep talking. “You can come to my bed and I can touch you. I’ll – _oh god_ , if you want, I’ll touch all of you. As much of you as you want.”

Where was this courage coming from? From the heat of John's gaze? The words were speaking themselves now. He didn’t stop. “And I’ll kiss you, and I’ll put my hands on you and _John_ if you want, if you tell me it’s what you want, I’ll keep you close and make you – if it’s not too much, or too fast, I’ll make you, make you come..." He winced - he hadn't meant to be so specific. Too late. " _John._ I’ll...I want to. If you want to. Will you – do you –?”

John’s lips were trembling now, his blue eyes were wild and his breath ragged. He did not hesitate but said, “Yes, oh god, yes, Sherlock, if – I want that. I do. Yes.”

“Oh, thank god,” Sherlock breathed, and he pressed up and kissed him.

John melted down into the kiss, his panting breaths coming through his nose as his mouth went pliant for Sherlock. His whole body seemed to relax as he sat, allowing Sherlock to pull and tease at his mouth, to feast on lips and lap of tongue.

Their need began to build as the kiss went on. Sherlock could feel the heat and tension low in his belly and all across his thighs. John’s mouth was soft and inviting, his chest heaved, and his knees fell open where he sat.

With one last sweep of his mouth, Sherlock pulled away and rocked back on his heels, standing before John and holding out both his hands. Not breaking eye contact, John took the offered hands in both of his and allowed himself to be raised to his feet.

They made their way to the bedroom, Sherlock walking backwards, not relinquishing either of John’s hands. Their gaze was locked and never wavered the whole way through the kitchen and down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is coming hard on the heels of this one. 
> 
> My heart is in this fic. I'd love to know what you think.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because John is afraid, no, ashamed to touch Sherlock, Sherlock has offered to do the touching. He did not, perhaps, pause to consider what an undertaking it would turn out to be, or to wonder whether or not he is equal to the task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the change of rating to explicit. I hope that doesn't put anyone off.

Sherlock led John to the middle of the room and let go of his hands. He turned deliberately and shut the door with a small click, then turned back to John, where he stood by the bed. He was waiting for Sherlock.

Apprehension dawned. He could see it mirrored in John’s face as well. _We’re actually doing this._

Before it could take hold and paralyse him completely, Sherlock grasped John by the shoulders and guided him to the edge of the bed.

John sat. He looked...nervous. Resolute. Determined. _Not exactly what one is hoping for from a new lover,_ Sherlock reflected. But he was in this now. No way to go except forward. He had promised John, and John wanted this. _I want it too. So much._

 _Shoes._ Sherlock knelt at John’s feet, methodically untying and removing each shoe and sock, and placing them neatly beside the bed. He contemplated John’s bare feet for a moment, side by side on the floor. They looked small, which they were. They looked _trusting_. He covered one ankle with his hand.

It was John’s skin. It was just his _ankle_ , for heaven’s sake, but it was _John’s skin_. He brought his other hand to John’s other foot and encircled both his ankles. His fingers could reach right around. He gave a little sigh.

He reached a little way up John’s trousers, along his calves. The fine hairs slipped against his fingers. He had known John for so long, had thought about him so much, but this was the first time he had felt the fine hairs of John’s legs against his fingers.

Withdrawing his hands from the insides of John’s trouser legs, Sherlock ran his hands up to John’s cloth-covered knees and stroked circles there with his fingertips. He felt rather than saw the shiver that ran through John; he had not looked at John’s face since he began touching him.

 _Look at him._ He took a breath, and looked up.

John had been staring at Sherlock’s hands, but when Sherlock raised his head, John did too. Their eyes met, and Sherlock froze.

 _I don’t know if I can do this._ The realisation hit him hard. He’d made some big promises, involving John’s body, involving John’s _whole_ body, and now he was almost defeated by – of all things – the fineness of John’s leg hair, by his small feet and the bones of his knees.

John, too, was tense. He seemed to lose his resolve. He broke eye contact, casting about for something else to look at – and caught sight of the cornish plushie sitting on Sherlock’s pillow.

The set of his shoulders eased a bit. “How’d he get in here?”

Sherlock sniffed, sitting back on his heels. “He walked, obviously.”

“Right.” John leaned over, picked up the toy, and held it in his hands. It seemed to soothe him. Sherlock couldn’t exactly fault him for that. The toy had done the same for him.

They glanced at one another again. A moment later they were laughing. It overtook them, and for a short while they were helpless with mirth, all their earlier discomfiture transforming itself into desperate, convulsive laughter.

“What –” John choked on his own giggles. “What are we _laughing_ at?”

Sherlock, through his own chuckles, said, “Why are you asking _me_?”

“You started it!”

They were both gasping for breath. “John, John, stop, this is – this is ridiculous.”

“I know, I know, I’ll stop – ” John didn’t stop.

Neither did Sherlock, for another long moment. Then they took a breath together, and both calmed. Sobered, though their smiles remained and their laughter still hovered nearby. Their earlier tension had fled.

“I suppose, if they can’t trust us to be appropriate at crime scenes, it’s no surprise we lose it in the bedroom,” John remarked presently.

Sherlock huffed another little laugh. “It was all getting a little serious,” he agreed.

John nodded, grinning. He toyed with the little doll, waving its arms, making its feet kick _one, two, one, two,_ bobbing the whole thing in a jaunty dance. Since they seemed to be taking a break, Sherlock rose from his knees and sat next to John on the bed, watching the toy. He reached over and waggled one of its hands.

“I like him,” Sherlock said. “I don’t think I said.”

“Do you? I wasn’t sure – it’s pretty silly.”

“It’s utterly ridiculous. But.” How much honesty was too much? _John feels vulnerable. Tell him._ “It meant you were thinking of me while you were away. I didn’t think you did that.”

John looked at him incredulously, as he did whenever Sherlock had overlooked something truly, profoundly obvious. _But it’s the solar system!_

After a moment’s pause, though, all he said was, “I do. Often.”

Sherlock gave a little smile.

After a beat, John ducked his head and peered up at Sherlock. “Listen, um…”

“Yes?”

“I still.” John swallowed. “I still want to. Want you to. What you said. If you want to.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew serious, but his smile lingered. The worst of his trepidation had dissipated with the laughter. This was _John_ , after all. His feelings were fraught with the months and years of thwarted desire, to be sure; there was no one on earth he had ever wanted the way he wanted John Watson, and that was...disquieting. At the same time, though, there was no one on earth he trusted the way he trusted John. No one he loved the way he loved John.

He could do this. “I want to.”

He became aware that he was sitting next to John, close to him, on the edge of his bed. It was easy now to put an arm around behind him, to reach out with his other hand and rest it on John’s forearm.

 _What on earth was he waiting for?_ Here was everything he wanted, waiting for him.

Their kiss, this time, was deep. Not ravenous, not desperate, but unmistakable in its intent. John’s mouth opened and Sherlock worked around the edges of John’s mouth with his lips, sucking lightly, biting gently, tasting, allowing the sensations to flow over him.

He pulled away from John’s mouth and kissed along his jaw, to the hollow of his neck, to the tendon by his ear. John went yielding under Sherlock’s hand, allowing him  to tilt John’s face, to stroke his skin, to bare his throat. He was awash in touch and smell and wonder.

This was allowed. This was _desired._

There was no part of John that Sherlock did not want to gather into his mouth, to hoard under his hands. John’s hair teased at his fingertips, while his lips and tongue roved ceaselessly between face and ear and throat. Under the constant movement, John – though he did not reach for Sherlock – parted his lips and stretched his neck and gave little sighs at each new touch.

Kiss, touch, taste. Kiss, touch, _breathe._ Kiss, touch, stroke. _Smell._

Sherlock’s nose, his _nose,_ blazed a trail behind John’s ear, up into his hair, down to his collar. He would not have guessed what sensations he could glean from the delicate nerve endings in the skin of his _nose,_ of all things. It wasn’t just smell, it was softness, it was warmth, it was the little shivers John gave as Sherlock caressed him with his _nose._

Shivers of _pleasure_. John was relaxing under his touch and allowing himself to feel _pleasure_. This was _happening._

Sherlock brought his hand to the top button of John’s shirt, and paused there, fingertips ghosting over the skin of his collarbone. “Is this all right? Can I unbutton your shirt?”

 _He’d just said that to John. He’d just asked John if he might open up his shirt._ He was in a position where it was conceivable, imaginable, possible, _reasonable,_ that he might unbutton John’s shirt, the better to touch him and kiss him. _Staggering._

“Yes. Yeah.”

One button at a time, using only his left hand, getting small sparks of contact with John’s skin as he moved down the row. He did it by feel, mouthing languidly at John’s neck as he went, unable to tear his face away.

When the buttons were open, John seemed to come back to himself for a moment and moved abruptly. Sherlock started – _wait, wait –_ but it was only to unfasten his cuffs, pull the shirt tails out of his trousers, and remove the shirt entirely.

John was now shirtless on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock let out his breath. “John.”

His hands moved all over John’s torso, and his mouth planted kisses all across John’s shoulders. There was hair on John’s chest, and a scar, and it was awkward to get low enough with his mouth, but with his hands...his fingertips roamed along collarbone and pectoral, shoulder and biceps, sternum and nipples, and, _oh god,_ the little tremor that went with the tiniest brush of fingers there.

It was suddenly intolerable not to taste, not to kiss, not to _suck,_ so he grasped John’s shoulders and lowered him down to the bed.

John, lying now on Sherlock’s pillows, looked at him with a complicated kind of adoration on his face, and this was _allowed_ (when would he get over that?) so he kissed John’s mouth again because it felt wholly, incredibly _good._

 _Check on John._ “Is this all right, John? Are you all right?”

“I’m – yeah, I’m good.” A lift of his head, his mouth seeking, reaching for Sherlock’s, to bring him back in. Sherlock went willingly. _Keep going._

Here Sherlock forgot his solicitousness for a moment because John, growing bolder, drew Sherlock’s tongue further into his mouth and there was no way to stifle his groan. His fingertips, which had been wandering a bit aimlessly over John’s chest, suddenly found their purpose again and closed unerringly around John’s right nipple.

He squeezed lightly and felt John twitch, so he squeezed _harder_ and felt John _arch toward his hand_.

He did it again, and John moaned softly. _Breathtaking._

He kissed down John’s neck to his chest, and while his fingers played with one nipple, his lips found the other, and John writhed a little beneath Sherlock’s touch, pressing his chest up to his mouth.

It was _extraordinary._

John was giving himself up completely to Sherlock’s hands, to his mouth. For all that he could not touch Sherlock himself, he did not seem to be holding back, but instead lay on the bed, panting and wanting, and best of all, _not hiding._

This was happening. This was _possible._ Sherlock could _do_ this, despite the feeling of consequence, of _weightiness_ that threatened to overwhelm him. He could _claim_ John, with mouth and tongue and hands. And _teeth_ (oh, teeth) with John crying out at the lightest little bite along the swell of his pectoral.

Fingers tweaked nipples, circled, moved back and forth from one side to the other. Hands brushed hair, kneaded solid muscles. Fingers, hands, fingers, hands, John’s reactions followed Sherlock’s movement, twitching or pressing right or left, and his breathing was heavy and rough.

With his face, Sherlock sought contact with John’s skin, rubbing his _cheek chin jaw throat_ over John’s body, revelling in the intimacy of the touch, smooth cheek on on silky throat and rough stubble. He had seen cats do this, as a way of marking their territory. (He was doing it for much the same reason.)

His face was not enough. The feel of John’s skin against his own was intoxicating, and he was suddenly desperate for more. His ardour gave him courage.

“John,” he said to the other man’s closed eyes and flushed face. He waited while John opened his eyes, focused on him, then asked, “Do you – would you prefer me to leave my clothes on?”

John’s eyes went wide – _oh, oh, not okay_ – but he said, “No, god no, I – take them off.” His voice was ragged with desire. _Thrilling._

“Will it be all right?”

“I don’t know. I think so. I don’t care. God, Sherlock, I don’t care.” John’s eyes were dark and his voice was breathless, but if he wasn’t thinking then Sherlock had to.

If he pushed John too hard, if John froze up again, if John hid, if John fled… _No._ “I care, John. You have to tell me.”

John breathed once, blinked, nodded. “Okay, yes, sorry. I’ll let you know if it’s not okay. Please. Maybe just your shirt.”

 _Please._ John had said please. Sherlock had never taken a shirt off so quickly.

Now he and John were both bare-chested and John was staring at him, and the word for John’s look was _hungry_ . John’s eyes were heavy and heated and _hungry,_ looking at Sherlock’s body.

 _Well, then_ , Sherlock thought, silencing his doubts once again, _Time to feed you up._

In a flash, though, Sherlock was just as hungry. He needed to feel John’s skin, and he needed it _now._

He lowered his torso down towards John’s, and where he’d been rubbing his face, he now sought contact with a wider expanse of flesh. He slid his body across John’s, chest brushing against chest, hair rasping on nipples, belly sliding sideways over belly. He used his whole skin as if it were his hands, touching, stroking, gliding over John, seeking all the contact his fingers craved, but with the whole expanse of his skin.

There were sounds to this contact, soft brushes and long sighs, hitching breaths and tiny gasps.

Then Sherlock adjusted his angle, couldn’t get it quite right from where he was, he wanted to slide right up John’s body...perhaps if he put his knee down _here,_ between John’s knees, he could –

– and then a great many things happened at once, because Sherlock’s knee came down on the mattress between John’s legs, and when Sherlock lowered his body to begin his slow slide up John’s belly, two thighs shifted against two very prominent bulges.

It was _electric._

A moment of shock. Then:

“ _John.”_

“ _Sherlock.”_

“John, you feel so – is this all right?”

“Oh, god, _yeah_. Again. _More_.”

Sherlock lowered his pelvis and they ground together, pressing their erections against one another, still in pants and trousers, and feeling _so good._ For a moment they gave themselves over to the sheer intensity of the sensation, grinding and and thrusting and _feeling_ , and hardly breathing at all.

Then Sherlock bent down to reach for a kiss, and it was hip and belly, chest and mouth, all pressed together, one long line of touch, as they rocked together, transported by their dizzying closeness.

And instead of freezing, instead of seeking escape, John kissed back, arched and pressed and rocked, with energy and urgency.

It was Sherlock who pulled away, who stilled their desperate thrusting, though it cost him a considerable effort.

“John, this is – this feels incredible. But –”

John opened his eyes. “But?”

“When I said I’d –” _Go on, say it._ “When I said I’d make you come, I didn’t mean...”

A smile ghosted over John’s mouth. “What, in my pants? Not what you had in mind?”

“Um. Right.” A grin he could tell was lopsided. “I don’t mind, if that’s what you want, but…” He laid a hand lightly on the buckle of John’s belt. _Go on, dare._ “Can I – can I take them off?”

A beat, a flicker in John’s face. Oh god. _I shouldn’t have stopped us._ Sherlock took a breath to take it back, to say, _never mind, I don’t have to, this is fine, this is more than fine._ But then John said, “Yes, all right. Okay.” And licked his lips.

In no time Sherlock had John’s trousers open, and John lifted his pelvis to help. Fabric slid down over hips and off feet. Then pants, then John lying back on the bed, naked and hard, wide-eyed, and desperately beautiful.

“Oh, _John._ ”

The promises that he had made when he’d taken this on swirled before him. The utter _trust_ John was placing in him was overwhelming and more than a little daunting. He tried to keep his own uncertainty in check. _What next?_

 _Clothes._ “Shall I – shall I take mine off too?”

Again, there was the smallest hesitation in John’s face before he nodded. But he did nod, and when Sherlock gave him another probing look, he nodded again, with more conviction. His eyes flicked to Sherlock’s chest, then lower. He smiled a little and nodded a third time. “Yeah, try it. I want – I want to see you.”

So Sherlock rose from the bed. He talked as he removed his trousers, to cover his awkwardness. “John. I can’t even say how much I – John, this is...”

He was naked now, standing by the bed. His eyes fell to the floor. He wanted so badly for this to be all right.

“This is what I want, John, but only if you want it, too.”

He waited, eyes down, for John to respond. The seconds stretched out.

 _Look at him. You have to check, go on, look at him._ With difficulty and reluctance, Sherlock finally raised his eyes.

At the sight that met him, dread clenched in his belly like a fist. John was staring at him, brows drawn, eyes wide and dark. _Oh, no._

 _Ask._ “You do, John? You do want this?”

John nodded, _yes,_ nodded desperately, and his eyes swept over Sherlock’s body, but they were darting, wild. _Frantic._ Then – _oh, no._ Before Sherlock’s eyes, John began to _shrink_. He fought it, he resisted valiantly, but Sherlock could see him tensing up, drawing in.

 _Why? What happened?_ Something about seeing Sherlock’s body was bringing the thoughts in to crowd behind his eyes, the doubts, the fears. Seeing Sherlock’s desire. Seeing all of Sherlock’s skin, which he couldn’t touch, which it seemed he could hardly bear to look at. Because of his own shame.

_He wants to hide again._

And sure enough John’s face went etched again and his eyes were closing, not in transport, but to cut himself off.

“Oh, god, Sherlock, what's wrong with me?” His face and his voice were anguished. “I do want this, I do, god, I do –”

But his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed, his mouth closed and his thighs tensed. His hands drew together to cover his erection, to shield it from view.

It was a ridiculous gesture, seen in silly shows on the telly, a naked man seeking to cover himself will cup his hands over his penis and lose all dignity, become laughable. On John, though, it was heartbreaking, it was _pitiful_ , that John, naked before Sherlock, should seek to hide himself that way.

_No._

“No, John, no, don’t hide, don’t hide, stay with me.” Sherlock clambered onto the bed beside John and reached out to him. He drew his fingertips along the backs of John’s wrists, his hands, his fingers where they curled around his erection, where they failed to completely cover the evidence of his arousal.

“John?” John was hurting and needed comfort, and _Sherlock did not know how to reach him_ . This was falling apart before his eyes. He could only carry on with what John had asked for, what he himself had promised. _Touch._

He stroked John’s wrists, caressed his knuckles. Swept his hands along John’s forearms, the back of his hands, coaxing him out from hiding, until one hand unbent – not much, hardly at all –  enough to allow Sherlock to pull it away and cradle it in both of his.

John’s hand.

John’s _hand._ Here was one of John’s hands, cradled in his own. The bones of his ankles, his bare feet, the fineness of his hairs - he had navigated these, and rallied. But John's hand...

 _Oh, god._ What had he been thinking?

He stared at John’s hand, fixated. His own panic had bloomed and been quelled so many times tonight, but at last it rose, spiralled through him, and would no longer be denied. _No, no, this is easy, you’ve held his hand before,_ he told himself frantically, but it was too late.

John’s _hand_.

His clever hand, his hand that could kill and sprain and calm and heal. The first part of John he had ever touched, really touched. His strong hand, that could do so many things. John’s hand, that he ( _intolerable)_ thought was  _stained,_ and with which he could not bring himself to touch the skin of someone he loved. _John’s hand._

Kissing John, touching his skin, going chest to chest and cock to cock with John, that had been fine, that had been _wonderful,_ but now he was undone because of John’s little hand, lying in Sherlock’s two palms.

As if Sherlock would know what to do with it.

_Why did I ever think I could do this? Why did I think this would work? That I could take the, the responsibility for John’s body, for John’s – courage – when John couldn’t? When, when has that ever worked?_

_When have I ever been brave enough to do anything when John Watson wasn’t being brave with me?_

He’d brought John here to these edges and now he _didn’t know what to do._

He froze, trembled, started to stammer out an apology, “John, I, I –” and did not have any idea what he was going to say, _breathe, breathe,_ and this was a _disaster_ , completely out of control, _he could not do this,_ he could barely even breathe, and John would not trust him again to take care the way he needed, nor _should_ he, Sherlock was _not to be trusted,_  this was –

***

“Sherlock.”

The word came from far away.

Again. “Sherlock.”

It still seemed distant, but it began to penetrate his hysteria, and he focused on it.

“Sherlock.” A wash of relief. As ever, that beloved voice came to his rescue, came to help him out of the tangle of his own thoughts – John, the John in his mind was speaking, would calm him down and set him right again, and _oh_ , he needed it, he was panicking in earnest now.

Sherlock searched frantically for the source of that voice. If he could only focus on the John in his mind he could perhaps settle, perhaps salvage something with the John in his bed. _Where was he? Where was he?_ “Where are you?”

“Sherlock, Sherlock, I’m here. I’m here. Open your eyes.”

Sherlock didn’t, kept his eyes tight shut, seeking that voice, seeking that presence, that imagined presence that was speaking to him now, he could feel the calm, it was unlike anything he’d ever felt, _strange,_ the John in his head had never _touched_ him before…

***

“Sherlock. Open your eyes. It’s me.”

Oh. _Oh._

It was the _real John_ . It was the real John speaking to him, and cutting through his panic. The real John, lying naked on the bed. The real John, being the brave one at last this time, reaching out for Sherlock _with his own, real hands._

This John was _real,_ had come to fetch Sherlock out of his own mind, and out of his panic. He had reached out, and was about to touch him again.

“No, don’t, John, don’t, you’ll –” But John was doing it, John was touching him, with no trace, now, of fear.

John _touched_ him, the real John, not the John in Sherlock’s mind who could calm Sherlock down but not show him anything new.

This was the real John, and this was _new._

John had taken his warm, strong, firm, _real_ hands and reached out to Sherlock, guiding him back from the edge of panic. He stroked his face, caressed his jaw, slid hands down shoulders. He did not freeze, he did not panic, _he did not hide_.

John, doing at last for Sherlock what he had been unable to do for himself.

They gazed wonderingly at one another for a long moment. Suddenly everything was possible.

The next instant they were kissing _. Touching._ Fumbling, limbs still weak from the strain and tension that hadn’t yet had time to bleed away. That was otherwise forgotten now in the desperate drive for contact.

Mouths on faces and fingers in hair, bodies crushed together, clinging. And _hands_ , now, _hands,_ John moved his hands now as if they were _thirsty,_ as if they were _parched,_ soaking up whatever contact they could find, stroking, kneading, grasping, shoulders, hips, arse, whatever he could reach, as their mouths kissed and their bodies clasped and their hands drank deep, desperate draughts.

Hands fumbled for skin, knees bumped, arms tangled. Mouth opened into mouth. A tender frenzy of rolling and clutching, and then John was back on the bed, lying open under Sherlock’s mouth and hands, clinging to Sherlock’s shoulders and saying _yes_ and _please_ and _oh god_ and _touch me._

...and Sherlock did, confident and sure. He ran his fingertips up John’s cock and clasped it lightly, then down again, and up, feeling the silky skin over the straining hardness. John’s hips tilted and his eyes closed. Sherlock heard the hiss of his breath – _beautiful._

Not just beautiful: _Mine_. “John. I am _laying claim_ to you, John Watson.” _Kiss, stroke, stroke, up, down._ “No more hiding from me, no more hiding ever again. This is my honest claim now.” _Kiss, touch, kiss, stroke._ “ _My claim_ , and it’s stronger than anyone else’s.”

John nodded, eyes closed. He had one hand woven into Sherlock’s hair, and the other joined Sherlock’s hand on his erection. Together they wrapped their hands right around John’s cock and began to stroke, lightly at first, then more firmly. John closed his eyes with a groan.

Sherlock closed his eyes and buried his face in John’s neck, revelling in the sensations that washed over him. The firm touch of John’s fingers in his hair, the warm scent of the skin behind John’s ear, the satiny heat of John’s cock.  

He spoke into John’s skin, breathing him deep. “This, John, this right here, this is _beautiful._ Your skin, your – body. Not dirty. _Not dirty._ Beautiful.” John murmured something into Sherlock’s hair and tightened his own hand around Sherlock’s, rising and falling around his own cock. “ _Beautiful,_ John. And mine. _Mine._ Mine and yours, John. This is _ours.”_

Their rhythm sped up, John’s hand setting the pace, Sherlock’s increasing the pressure. Both men’s breathing came faster and harder, and John made little whimpering noises as their hands worked his cock. Sherlock wound his free hand into John’s hair, burrowed deeper into his neck, and _breathed_ and _breathed_ and _breathed._

“I was going to show you, John, show you that your beautiful hands are _mine_ , but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, it was too much.” The desire was strong, to talk (to babble) while they grasped and panted. “But that’s all right, now, isn’t it? I don’t have to show you.”

“Yes, _yes,_ it’s all right, _yes,_ Sherlock, don’t stop, _oh, oh,_ so –”

“That’s it, John.” He couldn’t stop talking, whatever nonsense came to mind. It didn’t matter what he said. “That’s it, oh, you’re so beautiful. That’s my hand on you because you are _mine_ and this is _ours_ and we will _never_ be apart again, oh, yes, gorgeous, that’s right, let me see you –”

Sherlock pulled his head out from under John’s ear just in time to see his whole body convulse, once, twice – and semen spilled out over Sherlock’s hand and John’s belly as he came and came.

Sherlock turned his head back to John’s face and tucked his nose up under his jaw. Nuzzled. Murmured, “Turns out I didn’t have to show you anything.”

John smiled, turning slightly towards Sherlock and resting a hand on his hip. “You did, though. You have. You’ve shown me. Look, I’m touching you.” Wonderingly. “I’m touching you, Sherlock. I am. And it’s fine. It’s all right.” A pause. “It’s _wonderful._ ”

It _was_ wonderful, as John trailed his hand down Sherlock’s hip and wrapped it around Sherlock’s flushed erection, and worked, and worked. _John’s hand,_ steady and competent.

Sherlock smiled slightly. Here was something else that John could do with his hands.

Sherlock surrendered to the touch, the touch he’d waited so long for, and thought _how wonderful, how brilliant, how perfect_ John was, and how perhaps he’d already imprinted himself on John’s skin. John certainly had on his.

When he was close, John said, “Up you get,” and pushed a puzzled Sherlock up so he was kneeling by John’s body.

He stroked him firmly, staring straight into his eyes, and angled his body to catch the strings of semen when he came.

 _Oh._ It ought to have been _dirty_ , the word John hadn’t been able to shake. Seeing his own ejaculate mingled with John’s, daubed on John’s belly, caught in the hair of his chest, smeared across his skin – and it _was_ smeared, it _was_ , John trailed his own fingers through Sherlock’s semen and _smeared it_ across his chest, no hesitation, now, no reticence, he _plastered_ it, rubbed it in, let it make filmy loops between the hairs on his chest and drew out viscous strings with the tips of his fingers. Spread what remained on his hands across his lips, down his neck, insatiable. Wiped more off his chest to bring it to his mouth, like he couldn’t get enough. It glistened on his chin.

It ought to have looked filthy, but it did not. It did _not._   _Not dirty._

It told Sherlock the one thing he needed to know:

_Mine._

He pressed his palm square in the middle of the whole glorious mess on John's chest. Right over his heart.

_Ours._

 ***

A little while later, the drowsy question: “You all right?” It was John, asking Sherlock.

A sleepy smile. “Oh, yes.” Pause, _sticky fingers twined on belly, lips pressed to forehead and jaw._ “And you?”

“Mmm. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

A few long moments drifted by, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s shoulder, their bodies subsiding, relaxing together.

Presently Sherlock observed, “That worked out...quite well, in the end.”

A sleepy smile from John. “That it did.”

“I thought it would be – I thought it would be more difficult.”

John blinked, and gave an expressive laugh. “You don’t think it’s been difficult enough?”

 _Fair point._ “Well, yes, all right. But we got here.”

John’s dear little half–smile, softer than he’d ever seen it. “Yes. We did.”

***

There was stirring, eventually, and rearranging, and mopping up, and tidying. They pulled on whatever clothes they could reach and made a sortie to the kitchen for toast and tea, then retreated back to the bedroom to have the toast and tea in bed. John talked idly of not having any clean clothes with him and Sherlock baldly forbade him to even consider not staying the night.

 _Oh, god._ “Or any night, John. That’s –” Blink, blink, blink. _Not this again._ Surely that topic was closed, now? “That’s decided, isn’t it? You’ll move back? Will you–”

In his consternation he got himself up from the bed and stood, in pyjama pants, bare-chested. Backed himself up against the windowframe. _Dread._ “John, now, after all this, are we – are we all right? Are we really all right now? Will you –” _Oh god, if he says no, I’ll die, I’ll die, I’ll crumble on the spot, oh god._ Breathe.

 _Ask. Ask. Ask._ Deep breath. “Will you move back here with me, John? Please?”

And he looked at John’s face, looked and looked, because every expression was there, like always when he felt something deeply, but this time he could see, he could tell, _fondness_ was there, _sadness,_ no, _contrition_ , _relief, joy_ and above all, _love._

All of those feelings were in his voice as well, and in his touch as he pulled Sherlock back onto the bed, back into his arms. “You don't have to ask. Of course we are. Of course I will. Right now, today. Yes. Yes. Yes.” A kiss came with each repeated  _yes._

His voice didn’t falter at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful beta and generous support as ever from Itsallfine (who's elbow deep in novel revisions), Cakepopsforeveryone (who's frantically crocheting carnations), SincerelyChaos (who has an actual job and actual responsibilities), Weweretold (who is in the middle of her own epic fic, which I will link here when she posts it), and May-Shepard (who's just finishing a move and whose poor doggie is just getting over pneumonia). You've been an extraordinary team of midwives.
> 
> Thank you.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new reality sets in.

They slept together that night, in the same bed, John in a borrowed t-shirt and a pair of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms rolled to the knee. It was...awkward, and a little nerve-wracking.

Sherlock had been used to quietness for so long, barring a few nights when he got to hear John’s little creakings in the room above. He’d almost always lived alone.

John was not noisy, by any means, but he breathed, obviously, and made tiny snuffling sounds as his limbs twitched towards sleep. At one stage of the night, he turned onto his back and snored gently for some minutes before rolling over to face Sherlock. After that, little puffs of air blew over Sherlock’s skin in a way that was almost rhythmic, but not quite.

Sherlock did sleep, sometimes deeply, but there were fitful stretches as well, when he was alert to every small rustle John made. Once John farted, and Sherlock came awake with a start that shifted to a silent puerile snort when he realised what had woken him.

If this was what it meant to have John’s body in his bed, though, just where he’d always wanted it, he was more than happy never to sleep undisturbed again.

Particularly when, towards dawn, they happened to roll towards each other. Both were still asleep, but limbs tangled and hands grasped and sleepy breaths became gasping breaths when one warm erection drew up beside another.

Eyes still closed, limbs still slack, they pressed and thrust against each other in their almost-sleep, murmuring half-words into one another’s hair, and this time John did come, with a long, shuddering sigh, in his pants. He was followed shortly by Sherlock, who then roused himself enough to peel them both out of their soiled bottoms before settling back against John’s warm bulk to sleep the rest of the night without stirring.

They woke in the morning, bare-bottomed, tangled, and sweaty. Sherlock took a deep breath of their mingled odours – musky, earthy, slightly sour – and looked at John’s face as he blinked into awareness, took in where he was and who was with him. John’s smile was drowsy and radiant and utterly uncomplicated.

Sherlock discovered at that moment that certain words, which he had previously thought sentimental and imprecise, were in fact highly exact, and referred to very specific states of mind. Words such as _joy._ Such as _comfort_. Such as _bliss._

He hadn’t known.

***

There were practicalities. John’s lease, John’s car, John’s things. John wasted no time but began making telephone calls as soon as breakfast was over.

Sherlock left him to it, tidying up the experiment he’d been working on in the kitchen. It took him a long time, much longer than it should have, because he kept returning to the sitting room to see John.

He did not even bother to deny it to himself. He had grown so used to living with the absence of John that he’d almost forgotten it was there, he’d learned to move around it so unconsciously.

John was here now, John loved him, and John was _staying._ Sherlock wanted to look at him, even though he was only arranging a final payment on his electricity bill.

He was caught off guard, therefore, when he circled back into the lounge in time  to hear John say, “Yeah, thanks. Thanks, me too.” A pause, and a warm smile, audible in his voice although his back was to Sherlock. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe at the weekend.” Another pause. “All right, good. Text me.” He ended the call.

“That wasn’t the council,” Sherlock observed, coming up behind John.

John smiled at him over his shoulder. “You’re an amazing detective.” He pulled him down for a kiss. He had done that several times already today, which was another reason Sherlock kept wandering into the room.  “Do you want to gue – deduce who it was, or shall I tell you?”

 _Not Greg. Not Stamford._ There was something in the pitch of John’s voice that suggested Harry, but John had been _making plans,_ which he never willingly did with Harry, and she’d never, ever made him smile like that. “You want to tell me.”

“It was Harry.”

“Thought so. What did she want?” Sherlock skirted John’s chair and sat down in his own.

“What did –? _I_ rang _her_ , Sherlock.” John was frowning slightly.

“You did?” There was something Sherlock was missing. John never rang Harry without first stewing about it for days. This seemed an odd time for him to – _oh._ “To tell her about…”

The frown deepened. “Us, yes.”

“Well.” Sherlock was stunned. For which there was really no excuse, some part of his mind chided him, given just how often John Watson had managed to surprise him these past few days. Surely he ought to be expecting it by now. Yet all he could manage was, “Well.”

“Is that...That’s all right, isn’t it?” John was frowning at his hands now. “You don’t...you don’t mind people knowing?”

 _Mind?_ “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“I just – ” He had never seen John voluntarily tell Harry anything, let alone ring her up to share...news. John never told anyone anything. This openness was completely new. “It’s only been a day.”

“It’s been _five years._ ” John held his phone in both hands. “I’m sure of this, Sherlock. I’m sure of us. I wouldn’t – oh god, I wouldn’t have brought us both through this if I wasn’t sure.” A pause, during which the corners of John’s mouth turned downwards. “But if you’re not...  or if you need some time to get used to – I’m sorry, I should have asked you first.”

Something clicked into place in Sherlock’s mind and he finally realised what _completely wrong_ idea John was getting from his hesitation. “No, John, _no._ That’s not it, that’s not it at all. It’s fine, it’s better than fine. I’m glad. I’m just…” He might as well admit it. “Surprised. In a good way.”

John’s shoulders relaxed and he gave a little smile. “Okay, good. Good. And yeah, I guess it is a little...fast.”

“And you don’t usually...tell people things.”

John gave a little laugh. “No, I know. It’s just – " He paused, and shook his head. "It’s been so long since I was proud of something.”

Sherlock blinked. Replayed John’s words. _It’s been so long since I was proud of something._ Blinked again. _Proud,_ John had said. John was _proud_ of Sherlock. Far from staying silent, far from _hiding,_ as he’d done so much, as he’d always done, John was _telling Harry_ because he was _proud._

There was a moment where Sherlock could choose between shorting out entirely, and surging forward to kiss John. He chose the latter, and it was another two hours before the question of telephone calls came up again.

By that time, Sherlock was so relaxed and sated and _happy_ that he agreed that they would wait to tell Molly in person, but that they should tell Greg Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson that very day, despite the certainty of (respectively) merciless teasing, constipated, narrow-eyed (but probably sincere) congratulations, and rivers of joyful tears.

***

John  _stayed._ There were things he needed to do, and he did them, largely, from Baker Street. He did not offer to spend another night at the flat. He did not even suggest he sleep upstairs. He seemed reluctant to let Sherlock out of his sight. When he had to go back to his flat, Sherlock went with him. There was no fiction about John needing help with packing.They did not discuss it, but simply arranged not to be apart. Perhaps - certainly - as time went by they would be more at ease with it but for now...

They'd been forced to be apart so many times, and for so long. (The dying, and the leaving.) 

So they stayed together now, and Sherlock did help with the packing.

***

  **The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

### Back in Touch

**I’ve had a lot of emails since I posted The Silent Witness. Seems people want to know if I’m going to be back to blogging regularly now. Thanks for those messages. It’s nice to know you’re still interested, even after such a long gap. The second one in my blogging ‘career’.**

**A lot of you have been with me a long time.**

**When I started this blog, my only readers were my sister, a couple of mates, and my therapist. I didn’t expect any more than that, because quite frankly I didn’t expect anything much to ever start happening. Well, if you’ve seen the rest of my entries, you know how wrong I was.**

**Because shortly after I started the blog, Sherlock Holmes happened to me. And in one way or another, he’s been happening ever since. Some of that is recorded on this blog.**

**You’d be amazed at how much I left out, though.**

**There are pros and cons to keeping a public blog, especially one as public as this one became. I’ve always enjoyed sharing the cases, and seeing the responses. I think it was partly because I could never completely believe that any of it was really happening! Telling people and seeing what they had to say about it made me think, ‘Okay, this is really my life, and if I think it’s mad, well, that’s because it is.’**

**It hasn’t been my life for a while now. It’s been good having this as a record.**

**As for the down side of keeping a public blog, there are always things you try to keep private. I guess it’s the things that are most personal. But as it happened, I think I was trying to protect the wrong things.**

**You knew I got married. Sherlock’s post told you that, and I mentioned it myself a few times. That’s something I tried to keep private, beyond the broadest details. I think I had some really good reasons for that.**

**(I think I had some other reasons, too.)**

**Anyway, absolutely nothing in my life has gone as expected since I met Sherlock. I guess it’s unsurprising that my marriage was no exception. That’s right, _was._ Past tense.**

**I can’t tell you too much about it, and I wouldn’t really want to anyway. But there were international crime rings, spies, villains with secret identities, and dastardly plans foiled by the most unlikely heroes. No sword fights this time, nor any car chases. But there were helicopters and aeroplanes, naturally.**

**Anyway, short version: Not married.**

**No need for any kind of condolences here, though. I’ve got a pretty clear perspective on things, and it’s safe to say I’ve gained a lot more than I’ve lost. A whole lot more. Infinitely more.**

**Which brings me to the point of this post. I said I had been trying to protect the wrong things, to hide the wrong things. That is, the things I was trying to keep private turned out to be the biggest lies, or the biggest bust. And the things I blathered on and on about as if it didn’t matter who knew, those were the things that were most important.**

**I have never stopped talking about Sherlock Holmes on this blog. There is laughably little on here about anything else. There wouldn’t have _been_ a blog if it hadn’t been for him. There would hardly have been a John Watson if it hadn’t been for him. **

**A lot of people wondered right away whether there was more to this relationship than mere flatmates. I always said there wasn’t.**

**Obviously – and it _is_ obvious to me now – there was. **

**So. Here it is. I've moved back in with Sherlock Holmes, to be his flatmate, his blogger...and his partner, in every sense of the word. _Every_ sense.**

**I have never loved anyone more than I love him. And astonishingly, amazingly, incredibly, he loves me too. It’s taken me a long time to reach the point where I could be honest about this, even with Sherlock – even with myself. But I am there now.**

**The people who are closest to us already know, and now I’m putting it on my blog. Stick around and maybe I’ll carve our initials on a tree or something, too, with a little heart and an arrow. That’s how gone I am.**

**I am never leaving him again, and I’m not letting him leave me, either.**

**Look, I don’t know what positions you all have with respect to same-sex relationships. Or relationships between grumpy codgers who ought to have sorted themselves out years ago. But honestly, if this loses me some readers, that’s a small price to pay.**

**My position is, if you’re very, very lucky, and a kind, wise and generally extraordinary person inexplicably, in spite of everything, falls in love with you and wants to be with you? You tell the world.**

**#johnwatsonlovessherlockholmes #sherlockholmeslovesjohnwatson**

**More cases coming up soon. And this time I’ll be seeing them first-hand.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is impossible to overstate how important it has been for me to have all of you reading, giving kudos, and commenting so thoughtfully. I have never done writing as a serious passtime, though I've always enjoyed it, and I've never before completed anything longer than a short, unedited story (or essays in uni). I can say without reservation that I would not have finished this, would not have got beyond the first chapter or two, without all of you cheering me on. You have all been so incredibly kind and generous with me.  
> As a result, I will keep writing, because I love love love it, and you have made me believe that I can do it. What an incredible gift you've given me, readers. Thank you.
> 
> Also, I still love hearing from readers, even though this has been finished for a wee while. I'm also really interested to know how you found this fic - like if there's someone I should thank for the rec - so you could let me know that as well, if the spirit moves you.

**Author's Note:**

> [Beautiful Cover Art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6649630) by [justacookieofacumberbatch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch)
> 
> Comments are still very, very welcome. I finished this over a year ago but it's still the story of my heart and I'd love to hear what you think.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] In the Dark Hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693156) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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